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V 


THE 


SLAVES OF PARIS. 



FROM THE FRENCH OF 


j ^ Emile Gaboriau, 


Author of “ The Widow Lerouge,” “ The Mystery of Orcival,” ‘‘ Within 
AN Inch of His Life,” File No. 113,” Other People’s Money.” 
“The Clique of Gold,” “Monsieur Lecoq,” 

“Count’s Secret,” Etc. 



BOSTON: - 

ESTES & L^TJE.ZA.T, 

299 TO 305 WASHING rON STREET, 


OPTOSITE THE OLD SOUTH. 


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Copyright^ 

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By Estes & Lauriat, 
1882. 


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THE SLAVES OF PAKIS 


CHAPTER I. 

BLACKMAIL. 

The 8th day of February, T86 — , was 
one of the most severe of the winter, for at 
noon, the favorite thermometer of Paris, 
Chevalier’s, marked 3 degrees below zero. 
The sky was dark and gray with snow, 
while the rain that had fallen the day pre- 
vious had frozen on the pavements, and 
made the streets so very dangerous that 
both cabs and omnibuses had ceased to run. 
The aspect of the whole city was very 
dreary — for when the Seine freezes over, 
be it never so lightly, one involuntarily 
thinks of those who have neither food nor 
fuel. 

This 8th of February was so unusually 
bitter that the mistress of the Hotel du Pe- 
ron, a sharp, hard Auvergnese, actually 
gave a thought to her lodgers, other than 
those of* wonder as to how she could con- 
trive some means of increasing the rent 
obtained from them. 

‘‘This cold,” she said to her husband 
who was putting coal into the stove ; “ this 
c liold would frighten a white bear I In such 
reather,” she added contemplatively, “ I 
al I ways feel very anxious, for since that 
wi ^nter when one of our lodgers hung him- 
sel f , I have never felt sure of what they 
woi ti’t do I That affair cost us fifty francs 
li h ard cash, and the ill will and reproach- 
es Oi t our neighbors beside. You ought to 
go UiP into the attic, and see what is going 
on tl pre.” 

*‘p'’shawJ” answered Loupias; "‘they 
have g’:one out to get warm.” 

“Dc I you think so?” 

‘ ‘ I m ^ 0 w it . Father Tant aine went out at 
daybreak l.k, and not long afterward I saw 
M. PauV Violaine come down stairs. There 
is no on e up there 'now but Rose, and I 
fancy shi3 has had sense enough to stay in 
bed.” 

""As ti:> that,” replied Loupias, in a 
spiteful to ne, ""I have no compassion for 


her; and I have about made up my mind 
that she is too pretty for this house.” 

It is in the Rue de la Hachette, twenty 
steps from the Place du Petit Pont, that 
the Hotel du Peron is situated ; and never 
was there a name more cruelly ironical. 
The sordid exterior of the house, the nar- 
row and muddy aUey-way, the windows 
obscured by dirt and patches of one kind 
and another, all say to the passers-by: 
“Here poverty and misery reside I” At 
the first glance it suggests a den of thieves, 
but the place is honest enough. 

It is one of those asylums growing 
yearly more rare in Paris, where poor 
creatures of both sexes, wearied and con- 
quered by the trials and misfortunes of 
this world, find in exchange for their last 
five-franc bit, shelter and a bed. They 
take refuge there, as a shipwrecked man 
climbs on a rock where he barely finds a 
foothold, and waits to draw a long breath 
and gain strength for new struggles and a 
new departure. For no matter how mis- 
erable one may be, it would be impossi- 
ble to conceive the idea of living for any 
length of time in the Hotel du Peron. Ev- 
ery fioor in the house, from the lowest to 
the highest, has been divided by means of 
frames, covered with cloth and paper, into 
small cells, which are facetiously called by 
Loupias, "‘apartments.” 

The frames were all rickety and dis- 
jointed, and their paper coverings hung in 
strips ; but the appearance was quite su- 
perb compared to the attic rooms, of which 
there were but two, with ceilings so low 
that it was almost impossible to stand up- 
right, and with windows in the roof. The 
only furniture was a bed with a straw mat- 
tress, a broken-legged table, and two 
chairs. 

Poor as these rooms were, Loupias lets 
them at twenty-two francs each for the 
month ; on account, she says, of the un- 
wonted luxur> if a chimney; and they 
are never empty I 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


Itisinoneof these attics, on this fright- 
fully cold day, that we shall find the 
young woman whom Loupias called Rose. 
!Never was there in this world a more 
superbly beautiful creature. She was 
about nineteen— a perfect blonde. Long 
cuived lashes half veiled the somewhat 
hard brilliancy of her eyes, which flashed 
with the blue light of steel. Her lips 
were slightly parted over small, pearly 
teeth, and seemed created for smiles and 
kisses. Her hair was crisp and luminous, 
and, waving over her broad, low forehead, 
was partially fastened up by a four-cent 
comb -much of the abundance of her 
tresses escaped, however, and fell in 
j waving masses upon her exquisitely 
moulded shoulders. 

She had not remained in bed, as had 
been suggested by the concierge, but had 
risen, and throwing over her ragged cal- 
ico gown the patched and soiled quilt, 
had taken a seat in the corner of the fire- 
place. 

But why there more than anywhere 
else? It was a mere idea, for there was a 
mere spark of fire in the chimney. Two 
small sticks, about as large as one's finger, 
smouldered vvith about as much heat as the 
end of a lighted cigar would have given. 

No matter. Crouched upon a soiled bit 
of carpet, dignified by Loupias with the 
name of a fire-rug. Rose was shutfi ng a 
pack of cards: seeking to console herself 
for the sufferings of to-day by the prom- 
ises of the future. 

In this operation she was 'SO absorbed 
that she seemed insensible to the cold 
that stiffened her fingers and made her 
hands purple. Before her, in a half- 
circle, she bad spread her dirty cards, 
and was dividing them into threes. Each 
one of these cards had for her a favorable 
or disastrous meaning, and she rejoiced or 
desponded accordingfy. 

“•One, two, three,’’ she said, ‘‘a fair 
young man — that should be Raul; one, 
two, three — money for me; one, two, 
three — hindrances and disappointments ; 
one, two, three, the nine of spades — that 
is to say, sorrow and starvation. The 
same story, and always that nine of 
spades.” And the girl was as disturbed 
as if she had received the positive assur- 
ance of an impending disaster. But she 
soon recovered herself, and again shulfied 
the cards, cut them scrupulously with her 
left hand, spread them out once more, 
and began to count : One, two, three. 

The cards this time showed themselves 
more propitious, and were full of alluring 
hox)es. 

Some one loves you,” they told her, 
in their own language; loves you very 
much. You are going a journey ; a letter 
is coming to you from a ^ark young man 
— a very rich young man ^ << 

This young man was^ . ^presented by 
the knave of clubs. “Yes,” murmured 


Rose, “it is always the rich, dark man; 
it must be my fate.” 

Then from a crack in the chimney, a 
safe hiding-place, she pulled out Ji folded 
letter — rumpled, soiled and worn from re- 
peated readings. For the fortieth time 
she unfolded it and read it again very 
slowly and aloud. 

“ Mademoiselle — I have seen you, 
and I love 3 ^ou. This I swear to you on 
my word of honor. 

“ I wish to tell you that the miserable 
place where you now conceal your beauty 
is no place for you. A charming apart- 
ment, with rooms furnished in ebony and 
blue, awaits you in La Rue de Douai. I 
am always straightforward in business 
matters. The lease will be in your name. 

“ Think this over, and ask any ques- 
tions you choose in regard to me. 1 am 
still a minor, but shall be of age in five 
months and three days, and 1 shall then 
have it at my own disposal — the property 
I inherited from 1113 '^ mother. My father 
is old and infirm, and is wealthy. 

“For the next five days I will be, from 
four to six o’clock, in a carriage at the 
corner of the Place du Petit Pont. 

“ Gaston de Gandelu.” 

This revolting and absurd letter was a 
very good exami)le of the style affected 
by the 3 ’oung dandies, called contemptu- 
ously by Paris les petits creves ; ” but 
it did not appear to shock Rose in the 
smallest degree, but on the contrary, this 
idiocy sounded in her ears like the most 
delicious music. 

“ If 1 dared ! ” she murmured, longing- 
ly. “ If 1 bnly^ dared ! ” 

She sat buried in thought with her head 
on her hand, when a quick, youthful step 
was heard on the frail stairs. 

“It is he!” she gasped in great terror, 
and swift in her movements as a cat, she 
slipped the letter back in its hiding-place, 
she did it none too quickly, for Paul 
Violaine entered the room. f 

He was a ^mung man — hardly twenty^ 
three. Slender, but admirably made. 4. 
face of the purest oval, and a complexion 
of that pa.e, clear, brown tint peculiar to 
the races of the south. A fine and silky 
moustache lightly shaded his upper lip, 
and gave to his physiognomy the 
ness which otherwise it would Itave 
lacked. Hair of a light chestnut cufrled 
slightly above a haughty brow,/ and 
brought out the strange vivacity at his 
large, black eyes. I 

His beauty, which was even greater 
than that of Rose, was still further en- 
hanced by a certain air of distinction 
which is supposed to belong only to the 
descendants of noble families. 7 

Loupias always declared that /the ten- 
ant of her attic was a prince in iiisguise; 
but he was certainly a very poor prince 
just at this time. His clothes, fexquisite- 

" : ' ) 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


5 


ly clean as they were, told the story of 
his poverty — not a poverty which asks 
for pity, but of that infinitely more cruel 
poverty which blushes at a glance of 
coniiniseratiou, which is silent and hidden. 

lie wore in this Siberian temperature, 
pantaloons, vest and coat of black cloth, 
thin and worn by constant brushing. He 
wore in addition, it is true, a light over- 
coat, almost as thick as a spider’s web. 
His shoes were beautifully glossy, but 
they told the sad story of many a weary 
tramp in search of employment or a stroke 
of good luck. 

Paul, on his entrance, held under his 
arm a roll of paper, which he laid, or 
rather dropped, upon the bed. 

‘^Nothing!” he said, in a tone of pro- 
found discouragement — “still nothing!” 

The young woman, forgetting her cards 
upon the carpet, started to her feet.* Her 
face lost its smiling, hopeful expression, 
and assumed a look of melancholy lassi- 
tude. 

“ What ! ” she answered, affecting a 
surprise that she certainly did not feel; 
“nothing, did you say. Nothing, after 
all you said when you went out this 
morning?” 

“ This morning. Rose, I had a glimmer 
of hope ; 1 believed that better days were 
coming. I was deceived, or, rather, 1 de- 
ceived myself. I took vague assurances 
for positive promises. These people have 
not even the kindness to say ‘No ’ to you. 
They listen to you with a look of interest ; 
they put themselv es at your disposal, and 
as soon as you turn your back Ibrget your 
very existence. Words — idle words! this 
is the only money in this cursed town at 
the service of the poor and unhappy.” 

There was a long silence. Paul was 
too profoundly absorbed in his own bitter 
thoughts to notice the contemptuous ex- 
ppssion with which Rose was looking at 
him. She seemed absolutely petrified at 
this picture of helpless resignation. 

“ W^e are certainly in an agreeable posi- 
tion!” she said at last. “What is going 
to become of us? ” 

“ Ah ! 1 do not know ” 

“Neither do 1. Yesterday Loupias 
came up to demand the eleven francs we 
owe her. I did not tell you this before, 
as I did not care to trouble you needless- 
ly ; but if in three days she is not paid, 
she swears she will turn us out of doors ; 
and she will keep her word. I know her 
too well to doubt it. She will do it 
merely to have the pleasure of seeing me 
on the street ; for she hates me, the de- 
testable old hag ! ” 

To be alone in the world ! ” murmured 
Paul, the train of his thoughts uninter- 
rupted ; “ utterly alone, without a friend 
or a relative — not a human being ! ” 

“ We have not a centime,” continued 
Rose, with ferocious determination. “I 
sold, last week, the very last rag I had 


save these on my back. W'e have not an- 
other splinter of wood, and we have not 
had a mouthful to eat since yesterday 
morning.” 

To these words, which sounded like 
the bitterest reproaches, the unhappy 
young man replied not one word, but 
clasped his forehead with both half-frozen 
hands in utter despair. 

“ Yes, that is a fine tableau,” continued 
the impertui'bable Rose, in a tone of utter 
disdain; “but I insist that something 
must be done, some expedient adopted, 
some means discovered, something, in 
short, I care not what ” 

Paul threw off his overcoat. “ Take 
this,” he said, “ take this to the pawn- 
brokers.” 

The girl did not move. “Is that all 
you can do to relieve us from our present 
difiiculties ? ” she asked, coldly. 

“ They will give you three francs on it, 
and that amount will buy some wood and 
bread.” 

“And then?” 

“ Then — we will reflect, and shall have 
time to look about a little. I only need 
a little time. Rose, to break through this 
fatal circle. Success will come to me 
some day. Rose, and with success, a for- 
tune ; but we must learn to wait ” 

“ We must be able to wait, you mean.” 

“No matter; do what I tell you, and 

to-morrow ” Paul was still too much 

absorbed in his own thoughts to glance 
at Rose. Had he done so, he would have 
seen that she was resolved to continue 
the subject. 

“ To-morrow ! ” she interrupted, with the 
most cutting irony. “ To-morrow, always 
to-morrow! For months we have lived on 
this word. Look here Paul, you are not a 
child; and you ought to have courage 
enough to look the truth square in the face. 
What can 1 obtain on that worn-out coat? 
Not more than three francs, if that.*. How 
many days can we live on three francs? 
Say three days. And then? Besides, do 
you not understand that you are too poorly 
clothed now to be well received ? It is only 
applicants in costly apparel that can gain 
a favorable hearing. To obtain anything, 
It is essential to look as if you did not need 
it. How can you, if you have no overcoat? 
You will look utterly absurd, and cannot, 
in fact, go into the street.” 

“Be quiet,” interrupted Paul; ‘I en- 
treat of you to be quiet. Alas ! I see only 
too clearly that you are like the rest of the 
world ; and want of success is a crime in 
your eyes. Once you had confidence in 
me, and did not speak in this way.” 

“ Once — I did not know ” 

“ No, Rose, it is not that you did not 
know, but that in those days you loved 
me. Good heavens! child, is there any- 
thing that I have left untried? 1 have 
gone from door to door to sell my compo- 
sitions — the songs that you sing so well. 


6 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


I have asked for pupils. What more can 
I do? What more could you do in my 
place ? Speak ! ” Paul became more and 
more excited. Rose, on the contrary, af- 
fected the most irritating nonchalance. 

I do not know,” she said, at last, ‘‘ but 
it seems to me, that were I a man I would 
not allow the woman whom I pretended to 
love to lack the necessaries of life — no, 
never ! I would work ” 

‘‘I am not a mechanic, unfortunately,” 
he interrupted; ‘‘ I have no trade.” 

‘‘Then I would learn one I How much 
does a man get who carries a mason’s hod? 
It is hard work, I admit, but not difiScult 
to learn. You have, or at least you think 
you have, an extraordinary talent as a mu- 
sician; I do not deny it. But were I a 
great composer, and had not a crumb of 
bread in my home, I would go, without 
the smallest hesitation, and sing in any of 
the cafes or in the open streets ; I would 
have money in some way, no matter how, 
and no matter what price I paid for it.” 

“You forget. Rose, that I am an honest 
man I ” 

“ Really, one would suppose that I had 
proposed some dishonorable deed to you. 
Your reply, Paul, is just that of all those 
persons who, lacking energy and determi- 
nation, fall by the way-side. They go 
about in rags, and with empty stomachs 
and aching hearts, but say, proudly : ‘ I 
am honest.’ As if to be rich one must 
necessarily be a rascal. What stupidity.” 

She spoke in clear and ringing tones, 
and her eyes glittered with fierce determi- 
nation. Hers was one of those strong na- 
tures, energetic and willful, that can lead 
a weak man to the border of an abyss, push 
him in, and forget him, even before he has 
reached the bottom. 

^ Under the lash of her sarcasm, the worst 
side of Paul’s nature was aroused. He 
grew angry, and the color came to his face. 

“Why do you not do something your- 
self?”* he cried. “ Cannot you work ? ” 

“ I? Ah ! that is quite another thing. I 
was not made to work.” 

Paul started forward with uplifted arms. 

“ Wretch ! ” he exclaimed. 

“No,” she answered, “I am not a 
wretch, I am only hungry ! ” 

A fierce quarrel was impending, when a 
loud noise attracted the attention of the 
angry pair ; they both turned. The door 
of their attic was wide open, and on the 
threshold stood an old man, who looked at 
them with a paternal smile. 

He was tall, but slightly bowed. Of his 
face but little could be seen save the higii 
cheek bones and a red nose: a grizzly 
beard — long and thick — concealed the rest. 
He wore spectacles with colored glasses, 
which did their share in concealing his 
countenance. Everything about him indi- 
cated the height of poverty. His coat, 
with large, ragged pockets, was greasy 
and worn, and bore the traces of all the 


walls against which he had rubbed after 
drinking. He was apparently one of those 
eccentric persons who consider it unnec- 
essarily fastidious to lay aside their cloth- 
ing on going to sleep, but lie down, all 
dressed, on the fioor, or on the ground. 

Paul and Rose knew this old man well. 
They continually met him on the stairs, 
and knew that he lived in the back attic, 
and that he was called Father Tantaine. 

His appearance reminded Paul of the 
fact that from one attic to the other every 
word could be heard, and the idea that he 
had been overheard put the finishing touch 
to his exasperation. 

“What do you want, sir?” he asked, 
roughly; “•and who gave you permission 
to come in without knocking? ” 

This question, almost threatening in its 
tone, seemed neither to offend nor discon- 
cert the old man. 

“ I should be lying,” he answered, “ were 
I to deny that, happening to be in my 
room, and hearing you quarreling, I lis- 
tened to what you were saying.” 

“Sir!” 

“Wait a moment, impetuous youth I 
You seem to be in a hurry to quarrel, and, 
upon my word, I am not surprised, for 
when there is no hay in the rack the finest 
horses will fight with each other. Ah I 
yes ; 1 know that very well.” 

He spoke in the most benignant of tones, 
and seemed to be perfectly unconscious of 
having committed any indiscretion. 

“Very well, sir,” replied Paul, deeply 
humiliated; ‘‘ you now know precisely the 
depths of abasement to which a man is 
compelled by poverty to fall. Are you 
satisfied?” 

“ Come, come I ” replied the old man, 
“ you must not lose your temper. If I 
dropped in on you without any warning, 
it was because, as a neighbor, I felt I had 
a right to bring you aid and comfort. 
When I learned all your little troubles, I 
said to myself: I can bring those pretty 
little children safely through all their 
troubles.” 

This declaration and promise of assist- 
ance from the lips of a person so deplor- 
able in appearance, appeared to Rose so 
absolutely absurd, that she could not con- 
ceal a smile. She thought that their old 
neighbor was about to open his pocket- 
book and present them with half liis for- 
tune — twenty centimes, possibly. 

Paul had a similar idea; but he was 
somewhat touched by this simple kindness, 
knowing that money lent under such cir- 
cumstances has an almost fictitious value, 
and that the solitary franc, which assures 
bread for two days to a poor man, is a 
million times more precious than a note of 
a thousand francs to a man of wealth. 

“Alas! sir,” said he, visibly softened, 
“ what can you do for us? ” 

Who can tell? ” 

‘"You see to what extreme destitution 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


7 


Avo are reduced — we need everything. 
Are we not utterly wrecked?” 

Father Tantaine raised his arms to 
Heaven, as if to invoke aid from there. 

‘'Wrecked!” he exclaimed. “By no 
means. Is the pearl, lying at the bottom 
of deep waters, wrecked and lost forever? 
It would be. of course, if some adroit 
fisherman did not discover it. Fisher- 
men, to be sure, cannot do much with the 
pearls they find; but they know some- 
thing of their value, and they place them 
in the jeweler’s hands ” 

He interrupted himself by a little dis- 
creet laugh, whose meaning escaped the 
two poor children whose evil instincts 
were lying dormant, but who were eager 
and covetous, but who were also ignorant 
and inexperienced. 

“I should be a silly fool,” answered 
Paul, “ if I did not accept your most gen- 
erous offer.” 

“ That is right. And the first step to 
take is to go at once and get a good meal. 
You must order some wood, too, for it is 
frightfully cold here — my old carcass is 
half frozen— and by and by we will talk 
about some clothes for you both.” 

“ All that,” sighed Kose, “ would take 
a large sum of money.” 

“ Well, and who says that I can’t give 
it to you?” 

Slowly Father Tantaine unbuttoned his 
overcoat, and, from a small inside pock- 
et, drew out a little dirty bit of paper 
which was pinned to the lining. This 
paper he unfolded with care, and laid it 
on the table. 

“ A bill for five hundred francs ! ” ex- 
claimed Rose, utterly stupefied with 
amazement. 

“ Exactly, my beauty,” replied the old 
man, in a triumphant tone. 

Paul did not speak. Had he seen one of 
the rails of the chair on which he was 
leaning suddenly burst forth in flowers 
and fruit, he could not have been more 
astonished. 

How could such a sum have been con- 
cealed under the old man’s rags? Where 
could he have obtained so much money? 

The idea of some crime committed, of 
a robbery, was so natural that it came in- 
voluntarily to both the young people at 
the same moment. They exchanged a 
cruelly significant glance, which was in- 
tercepted by the old man. 

“ Tut, tut ! ” said he, without appearing 
to be in the smallest degree disturbed. 
“You must not indulge in such bad 
thoughts and suspicions. It is truei that 
bank notes of five hundred francs are not 
spontaneously propagated in pockets like 
mine, but this one I came by honestly, I 
assure you.” 

Rose did not listen — indeed, what did 
she care? The note was there, and that 
wfis a’l she needed. She took it in her 
fing(‘rs. smoothed it tenderly as if the 


mere touch of the silky paper communi- 
cated to her the most delicious sensations. 

I must tell you,” resumed Father 
Tantaine, “that I clerk to a sheriff ” 

“Ah! ” 

“ Yes — and you ought to feel that it is 
a great triumph for you to be under obli- 
gations to a person of such importance. 
But this is not all; I am entrusted by va- 
rious persons with the collection of their 
bills. " In that way I have often in my 
hands quite large sums. To lend you five 
hundred francs for a certain time cannot 
inconvenience me. 

Between his necessities and his con- 
science, Paul stood, helplessly silent — 
moved as deeply as one always is at the 
moment of arriving at some momentous 
decision. 

“No,” he said, at last, “I cannot ac- 
cept your offer. I feel ” 

“Ah! my friend,” interrupted Rose, 
“ this is no time to talk of feelings I Be- 
side, do you not see that your refusal dis- 
tresses the gentleman?” 

“ She is quite right ! ” cried Father Tan- 
taine. “ So then it is all settled. Come, 
my beauty, go and buy some provisions, 
quick ; it is after four o’clock.” 

It was now the turn of Rose to start and 
grow scarlet. “Four o’clock!” she mur- 
mured, thinking of her letter. But she 
rose willingly in obedience to the man- 
date of Father Tantaine, and going to the 
cracked mirror, shook out her ragged 
skirts, and went off in triumph with the 
bank-note. 

“She is a great beauty,” said Father 
Tantaine, with the air of a man who 
knows. “A very great beauty, and ex- 
tremely intelligent also. Ah ! if she had 
some one to advise her she might rise to 
any height.” 

Paul made no reply; all his ideas were 
in wild confusion ; and now that he was 
no longer held in subjection by a look 
from Rose, terror filled his soul. He de- 
tected in the face of the old man an ex- 
pression which disturbed him and made 
him feel very doubtful of the wisdom of 
the events which were in progress. Had 
any one before ever heard of such an ex- 
traordinary event as an old man of this 
kind throwing bank-notes at the heads of 
strangers? Most assuredly there was 
some mystery, and Paul determined not 
to be compromised. 

“ In thinking the matter over,” he said, 
firmly, “ I feel that it is quite impossible 
for me to accept from you so large a sum, 
for I see no way in which I could ever 
hope to repay it.” 

That is no way to taik, young man. 
Begin by doubting yourself and your own 
abilities, and the whole world will follow 
your example. If you have hitherto 
failed, it is simply because of your inex- 
perience. Poverty, my boy. soon trans- 
forms a youth to a man— in the same way 


8 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS, 


that straw ripens medlars. But first, you 
must learn to trust me. These five hun- 
dred francs you may return to me at your 
leisure; 1 am in no hurry for them, only. 
you. must pay six per cent, interest, and 
give me your note.” 

But ” stammered Paul. 

I look upon the affair as an ordinary 
business transaction. So we need say no 
more about it for the present.” 

Paul was so simple that this giving his 
note re-assured him. although he knew 
full well that his name ad; led nothing to 
the value of a bit of white paper. Father 
Tantaine rummaged through his pockets 
again, and finally discovered a sheet of 
stamped paper. ‘■‘Write these words,” 
he said : 

“ On the coming 8th of June I promise 
to pay to M. Tantaine, or to his order, 
«tc.. etc.” 

The young man had just finished the 
last stroke of his signature, when Rose 
re-appeared, her arms filled with provis- 
ions. 

She was as radiant with joy as if some 
extraordinary happy event had taken 
place in her life. Ller eyes had a strange 
expression; but Paul did not notice this, 
for he was watching the old clerk, who, 
having carefully examined the note, put 
it away in his pocket-book with as much 
care as if it had been a paper of value. 

“ You understand, sir, said Paul, “that 
this date is a mere formality. It is quite 
improbable that in four months I can 
save enough to pay the amount I owe 
you.” 

Father Tantaine smiled benevolently. 
“ What would j'^ou do,” he asked slowly, 
if, after having lent you these five hun- 
dred francs. I should myself put you in 
the of repaying them before the ex- 
piration of a month?” 

“ If that were but possible, sir! ” 

“ I do not mean, my child, that I my- 
self can do this. I alas! am entirely 
powerless, hut 1 have a friend with a long 
arm and a strong one. Ah ! if I had but 
listened to him years ago I should not 
to-day be in the Hotel du Peron. Should 
you like to see this friend of mine? ” 

“ Would I like to see him, do you ask? 
Do you take me for a fool to throw away 
such a chance?” 

“ Very well, I will see him myself this 
evening, and will talk of you. Present 
yours(‘lf before him at noon precisely. 
If you please him, and he decides to take 
you up. your fortune is made, and you 
need not have another moment's anxiety.” 

He took out a visiting card, and hand- 
ing it to Paul, added : 

••My friend is named Mascarot, and 
this is his address.” 

Meanwhile. Rose, with that marvelous 
dexreri.y which is a characteristic of the 
Parisian, accustomed to move quickly in 
a confined space, had drawn order out of 


chaos, and had completed her preparations. 

The table was spread, with its broken 
crockery and stiff* wrapping-paper, instead 
of plates. A bright fire crackled and 
fiamed in the chimney, and two candles 
illuminated the fesiive scene, one in a 
cracked bottle, the other in a tarnished 
candlestick belonging to the concierge. 

This spectacle, in the eyes of the young 
people, was really quite supei’b, and filled 
Paul with generous delight. Business was 
completed, and every misgi, ing was erad- 
icated. 

“ Let us take our seats,” he cried, gayly. 
“ This is our breakfa.st as well as our din- 
ner. Come, Rose, lake your place; and 
you, my best of neighbors, you will give 
us the pleasure of joining us, 1 trust, in the 
repast which we owe to you.” 

But Father Tantaine excused himself 
with many protestations of regret : tempt- 
ing as the feast was, he said it was quite 
impossible for him to linger, as he had an 
engagement at half-past five quite at the 
other end of Paris. 

“It is also quite indispensable,” he 
added, “that I should see Mascarot this 
evening. 1 wish to say a few words to 
him to infiuence him in your favor.” 

Rose was by no moans sorry to see the 
old man depart. Ugly, dirty, and wretch- 
ed, he filled her with a disgust which tri- 
umphed over all the gratitude with which 
he should have inspired her.” 

Then, although she could not see his 
eyes, she divined instinctively that his 
spectacles concealed many a keen glance, 
which read to the very bottom of her soul; 
but this did not prevent her from adopting 
a sweetly coaxing manner, and entreating 
him to remain. 

But the old man was- immovable ; and 
after having once more reminded Paul that 
he must be absolutely punctual the next 
day at noon, he went out, exclaiming in 
the most cheerful of tones to the young 
people : 

“ A good appetite to you, my friends.” 

But once outside, and the door c osed, 
Father Tantaine stood still, leaning against 
the wall, and listened. 

The turtle-doves, as he called them, were 
in the best of spirits, and their laughter and 
fresh young voices filled the whole upper 
floor of the Hotel du Peron. 

Why not ? Paul, after a period of trouble 
and anxiety, had found comparative secu- 
rity ; he had in his pocket the address of a 
man who would make his fortune ; then, 
on the chimney-corner lay the change for 
the note of five hundred francs, a pile of 
gold and silver, which, at that moment, 
seemed inexhaustible. 

As to Rose, she could not cease laughing 
at this old clerk who, in her own mi id, she 
stigmatized as an idiot, and whom she 
called, in a clear voice, “perfectly ab- 
surd ! ” 

“ Courage, my darlings, courage,” mut- 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


9 


tered Father Tantaine. ‘‘This may per- 
haps be the last time that you will laugh 
togethex 

So saying, he, with infinite precautions 
lest he should fall down those rickety 
stairs, which were lighted only on Sundays 
— because gas was so high— crept down, 
but not at- once, into the street. He 
stopped, and locking through the glass 
door of the room belonging to the con- 
cierge, saw that the Loupias was busy over 
her stove, and entered, after a timid knock, 
bowing low with the humbled, down-trod- 
den air of a man to whom poverty had 
taught many hard anji bitter lessons. 

"‘I come to pay you my rent, madame,” 
he said, at the same lime depositing on the 
counter of the commode a ten franc piece 
and twenty centimes. Then while the 
concierge, who could write, after a fashion, 
was scrawling a receipt, he began to talk 
of his aflairs, relating how he had come 
into the unexpected possession of a small 
fortune which would bring ease and com- 
fort to his declining years. 

To support these assertions the old man, 
with the priile that is born of extreme pov- 
erty, which fears not to be believed with- 
out giving strong proof of the truth of his 
assertions, drew forth his pocket-book and 
exhibited several bank bills. This i)ro- 
duced so good an eftect that when the old 
man retired Loupias insisted on lighting 
him to the door, holding in one hand the 
lamp, and in the other his cap. 

Father Tantaine seemed to be very in- 
difierent to these attentions, however, and 
was evidently absorbed in thought. Keach- 
ing the street he took an easterly direction, 
glancing at the various shops which he 
passed, and hurried to a grocer's establish- 
ment standing on the corner of La Rue du 
Petit Pont and La Rue de la Buch^uie. 

This grocer, thanks to a certain wine 
made for him by a chemist at Bercy, and 
which he sold at nine sous for a pint, en- 
joyed a well-spread reputation in that quar- 
ter. The man was stout and short, irrita- 
ble and pompous ; he wore English whis- 
kers. was a widower, and a sergeant in the 
National Guard, and answered to the 
name of Melusin. 

Five o’clock in winter, in these poor dis- 
tricts, is the busiest hour for the shopkeep- 
ers. The workmen return from their day’s 
labor, and the women hasten their prepa- 
rations for supper. Monsieur Melusin was 
theiefore so busy among his customers, 
watching his clerks, giving them a helping 
hand now and then, taking down orders 
and making change, that he did not even 
notice the entrance of Father Tantaine. 
Had he done so, he would not have taken 
any trouble for a person so poorly dressed. 
But the old man had left behind him in the 
Hotel du Peron every suggestion of humil- 
ity in his air and bearing. Standing in the 
least crowded corner of the shop, he-called, 
in a most imperative tone : 


“ Monsieur Melusin ! ” 

The grocer, much surprised, dropped 
everything and ran to obey the summons. 
Why, the man knows me ! he said to him- 
self, not refiecting that his name, in gilt 
letters, a half foot long, shone on the sign 
at the side of the door. Father Tantaine 
gave him no time to speak. 

“ Sir,” he said, with an air of authority, 
“ did not a young woman come here about 
an hour ago, to change a bank-note of five 
hundred francs ? ” 

“ Certainly, sir, certainly,” answered 
Melusin; “but how did you know it?” 
He stopped, clapped his hand to his fore- 
head. “1 have it,” he cried; “ a robbery 
has been committed and you are on the 
track of the thief. And I must acknowl- 
edge that when this young girl, who cer- 
tainly looked very poor, came in to change 
the note, that I suspected something was 
wrong. I watched her carefully, and I 
saw that her hand trembled.” 

“Excuse me,” interrupted Father Tan- 
taine, “ 1 have not said one word to you 
of any theft. I merely wish to ask if you 
would know this girl a^aiii? ” 

“ As well as 1 should know myself, sir. 
A superb creature she was, I do assure you, 
with such hair as one rarely sees. 1 liave 
reason to believe that she lives in a hotel I 
know something about, in La Rue Hach- 
ette.” 

The Parisian shopkeeper is by no means 
favorably disposed toward those agents of 
the government who are seeking to obtain 
information in regard to oflfenders against 
the laws ; and yet, desirous of aiding soci- 
ety in a good work, they give the informa- 
tion required, and to facilitate an impor- 
tant capture, are often capable of heroic 
deeds, such, for instance, as that of losing 
their customers, who go off in a huff, when 
they find themselves' unattended to. 

Shall I.” continued Monsieur Melusin, 
“ shall I send one of my boys to the near- 
est police station for you? ” • 

“ By no means,” answered Father Tan- 
taine ; “ and I shall be infinitely obliged to 
you if you will keep my inquiries secret, 
until I hear from you again.” 

“Ah! yes, I understand ; an indiscretion 
just now would alarm them, and put them 
on their guard.” 

“ Precisely. Only I wish to ask permis- 
sion to take thp number of the note if you 
have preserved it. I wish you also to in- 
scribe this number on your books with to- 
day’s date and a note of the circumstance. 
If possible, I wish to ” 

“Yes, yes, I understand,” interrupted 
the grocer, “ you may wish to produce my 
books in court. That is often done — a 
merchant's books — you see I am entirely 
familiar with such matters. Excuse me, 
sir, for a moment; I will return to you 
instantly.” 

Everything took place precisely as 
Father Tantaine had intended, and with 


10 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


the greatest possible rapidity ; and finally 
Monsieur Melusin parted from him with 
all sorts of courtesies. He accompanied 
to the door and stood on the threshold, fol- 
lowing his unknown visitor with his eyes, 
happy in the consciousness that he had ren- 
dered an important service to an employe 
of the government or police department, 
who had seen fit to adopt such disguise. 

But what did Father Tantaine care for 
Monsieur Melusin’s opinion. He reached 
the Place du Petit Pont, and appeared to 
he looking and waiting for some one. 
Twice he made the complete circuit of the 
square, looking into all the secluded cor- 
ners, when suddenly he uttered an excla- 
mation of satisfaction ; he caught a glimpse 
of the person of whom he was in search. 
This person was a horrible-looking youth 
of about twenty, who seemed, however, 
not more than fifteen or sixteen, so thin 
and slender was he. The boy was leaning 
against the wall on the corner of Quai 
St. Michel and of the Petit Pont, and bold- 
ly asked alms, watching all the time out 
of the corners of his eyes the distant police 
officers. At the first glance, it was easy to 
detect in him the unfortunate outgrowth of 
the civilization of large cities, the veritable 
gamin of Paris who, at eight years of age, 
smokes old cigar stumps, picked up at the 
doors of the cafes, and gets tipsy on poor 
and heavy eau-de-me. His hair, of a light 
and dirty yellow, was already very scanty 
— his complexion was withered and leaden, 
an ironical grimace curled the corners of 
his mouth, with a large pendant under lip, 
and the most cynical impudence in his eyes. 
His costume was neither whole nor clean, 
and he had turned up the right sleeve of 
his blouse, exposing to view a twisted and 
deformed arm, hideous enough to excite 
the commiseration of the passers-by. He 
was chanting a monotonous sentence, 
wherein the same words were constantly 
repeated: ‘‘Poor mechanic — an old 

mother to take care of — unable to work — 
injured by some machinery.” 

Father Tantaine walked directly up to 
this boy, and with one vigorous slap on the 
side of the head, made fls hat fiy to some 
distance. The fellow turned around in a 
rage, but seeing who had been the aggres- 
sor, seemed much abashed, and murmured : 

“Caught!” and at once, with a japid 
contraction of the muscles of the shdulder, 
he untwisted the deformed arm, that proved 
to he as sound and healthy as the other, 
rolled down his sleeve, picked up his cap, 
and placing it on his head, awaited further 
orders. 

“Is it thus,” said Father Tantaine, 
severely, “ that you execute the commis- 
sions which have been entrusted to you?” 

“ What commissions? I have heard of 
none for a long time.” 

That is no excuse ! Thanks to my re- 
commendation, Monsieur Mascarot pro- 
cured for you a good position, did he not? 


I have put you in the way of earning 
money, and you really want for nothing. 
You promised that you would beg no 
more.” 

“ Forgive me, sir, I meant to keep my 
promise; but how could I kill time while 1 
was waiting. I must be doing something, 
sir. It is not my nature to be id :e, and 1 
have earned seven cents.” 

“ Toto-Chupin,” said the old clerk, 
solemnly, “ you will certainly come to 
some bad end ; I see this very clearly, and 
warn you in due season. But let us get at 
the facts. What have you seen?” 

They had left the corner, and walked 
slowly along the deserted quai, past the 
old buildings of the Hotel Dieu. 

“ I have seen, sir,” replied the young 
scapegrace, “ precisely what you told me 1 
should see. At four o’clock precisely, a 
carriage drove into the place, and stood 
still for two hours in front of the hair- 
dresser’s. Upon my word, 1 thought it had 
taken root there I My eyes though, was 
not that a turn-out? A gorgeous carriage, 
superb horses, and a coachman in livery.” 

“Goon; was there no one in the car- 
riage?” 

“ Of course there was. I knew him, too, 
by the description that you gave of him. 1 
never saw a man dressed as he was. A 
new and glossy hat. light pants, and a 
short coat. My! how short it was! but 
all in the latest fashion, you understand. 
To make quite sure that 1 was right, and 
as it was growing dark, I went close up 
and examined him well. He had descend- 
ed from his carriage, you understand, and 
was trotting up and down the sidewalk, 
with a cigar unlighted, between his teeth, 
so J took a match and ran up to him, say- 
ing : “ Have a light, prince? ” He gave me 
a ten-cent piece, and I had a good look at 
him. It was he — ugly, small, shriveled 
up, and knock-kneed. He wears eye- 
glasses, and looks like a monkey.” 

When Toto-Chupin got started in a nar- 
ration, it was best to let him go on to the 
end. It was by far the shortest way of ob- 
taining the information one desired. 

At last, however, the old gentleman be- 
came impatient. 

“ Well I well ! what happened? ” he said 
crossly. 

“ Hot much, to be sure. My young man 
looked anything but pleased, at having to 
get his boots muddied. He went up and 
down the sidewalk like a little beast shut 
up in a cage. He cut the air with his little 
w'alking-stick, and stared at all the women 
he met. What a fool that dandy is ! I 
wanted to kick him ; and if ever you should 
take a fancy to give him a beating, I am 
your man, Father Tantaine. I do not be- 
lieve that he is half as strong as I am.” 

“ Go on, Chupin, go on.” 

“Very good.” Well, then, he was, or 
rather I should say, we were waiting there 
for a full half hour, when suddenly a 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


11 


woman whisked round the corner, and 
came right up to my dandy. Whew ! 
wasn’t she a beauty ! Never in your life 
did you ever see such eyes, I stood just 
dazzled. But she was in rags. They spoke 

to eac h other in such a whisper, that 

And you did not hear?” 

‘•For what do you take me, sir ? The 
beauty said : 

‘ You understand then — to-morrow.’ 

“ The dandy answered : ‘You promise 
positively? ’ 

“ And then she said : ‘Yes, on my word, 
at noon.’ 

“ Thereupon they parted. She went 
back to La Rue de la Hachette, the other 
jumped into his carriage. The coachman 
whipped his horses , and was otf, in two 
shakes. Now, give me my five francs.” 

This demand in no way seemed to aston- 
ish the old man. He presented the preco- 
cious scamp with the silver piece, saying, 
at the same time : 

‘‘If I promise, I pay. But remember 
my prediction, Chupin, you will end badly. 
And now good night, my lad, our paths lie 
in different directions.” 

Father Tantaine lingered, however, on 
the Square until Toto had disappeared in 
the direction of the Garden des Plantes, 
and then turned back, and continued his 
walk in the direction wlience he had come. 

He walked very fast, and seemed highly 
contented with all that he had accom- 
plished. 

“ I have not lost my day,” he murmured. 
“ I foresaw all, and the most improbable 
things have turned out precisely as I would 
have wished. Flavie will be pleased.’’ 

CHAPTER II. 

AN EMPLOYMENT OFFICE. 

It is in La Rue Montorgruil, a few steps 
only from La Passage de la Reine de Hon- 

f :roie, that the establishment of the power- 
ul friend of Father Tantaine is situated. 
B. Mascarot is the head of an intelli- 

f ence ofiice for employes and servants of 
oth sexes. Two large placards nailed 
each side of the door of the house, inform 
the passers-by of the demands and offers 
for the day, and also announce that this 
establishment was founded in 1844, and 
was still in the hands of the original pro- 
prietor. 

It was unquestionably this long continu- 
ance in a profession proverbially so un- 
grateful that Mascarot owes his reputation 
and the great consideration he enjoys, not 
only in the quarter of which he is a resi- 
dent, but also throughout Paris. 

It is asserted by the masters and mis- 
tresses that no one has any reason to com- 
plain of servants recommended by him, 
and the servants in their turn claim that 
he sends them to the best of places — where 
they have every comfort and privilege. 
The employes, too, know very well that, 


thanks to his extended acquaintances, 
thanks to his numerous connections and 
the ramifications of his busin/ss relations, 
that there is always a good situation ready 
for any one who will take the trouble to 
please" 

But Mascarot has still further claims on 
the esteem of the public. It was he who, 
in 1845, conceived the project of organizing 
a society, kno^vn as “ Les gens de 
the purpose of which was to provide a 
shelter for domestics out of place. Mas- 
carot, to carry out his idea, took a partner, 
a man by the name of Beaumarchef , and 
installed him in a furnished house close 
by his intelligence ofiice. 

If these various enterprises were of use 
to the world, it must be admitted that 
Mascarot reaped a plentiful harvest from 
them, and was part owner of the house in 
which he resided, before the door of which 
stood at noon, on the appointed day, our 
young friend Paul Violaine. 

He had utilized the five hundred francs 
of his old neighbor, and appeared in a garb 
which did credit to his own taste, as well 
as the skill of his tailor. In fact, he was 
so handsome with these favorable sur- 
roundings, that the women who passed 
half turned to look after him. He. how- 
ever, took little notice of this, he had been 
full of anxious thought since the previous 
evening, and now had come to doubt the 
power of this unknown and myste rious 
personage, who, according to Father Tan- 
taiiie, could make the fortune of any one 
he chose. 

“ An intelligence office I ” he muttered, 
contemptuously. “ Surely he cannot in- 
tend to offer me a situation at a hundred 
francs per month I ” 

He was naturally somewhat agitated and 
disturbed by the impending interview, and 
before entering the house studied its exter- 
nal appearance with no small degree of in- 
terest. The house was much like the 
others among which it stood. The intelli- 
gence office, and the entrance to the lodg- 
ing-house were at the back of a court-yard, 
while within the porte cochere stood a 
chestnut vender with his furnace and va- 
rious cooking utensils. 

“ Come,” said Paul, to himself, “ to re- 
main here does me no good.” 

He therefore summoned all his resolu- 
tions, crossed the court, ascended the 
stairs which faced him, and reaching the 
first fioor, saw on a door the word “ otlice.” 

He knocked loudly. “ Come in,” was 
heard, at once. The door was not shut, 
but simply held in place by a sliding weight 
at the end of a rope. Paul pushed open 
the door. 

The room he entered was precisely like 
all other intelligence offices in Paris. All 
around the room ran a low seat blackened 
and polished by time and use. At the end 
was a sort of box shut in by a grating and 
surrounded by a curtain of green serge, 


12 


THE SLAVES OF PAEIS, 


which by the habitues of the place, was 
laughingly denominated The Confessional. 

Between the two windows was a placard 
of zinc, and on it the words in large letters : 

Kegister fees payable in advance.” 

In one corner of the room a gentleman 
was seated before a large table, who, as 
he wrote in a huge book, was holding a 
conversation with a woman who stood in 
front of him. 

‘‘Monsieur Mascarot?” said Paul, tim- 
idly. 

“ What do you want of him?” said the 
gentleman, without rising from his seat 
or even looking up. “ Do you wish a sit- 
uation? Will you register your name? 
We have at this moment a demand for 
three bookkeepers, a cashier, a correspond- 
ing clerk, and six other good positions. 
Are your references good?” 

These words were uttered with such me- 
chanical rapidity that one migiit have sup- 
posed them learned by heart. 

“1 beg your i^ardon,” interrupted Paul. 
“I would like to speak to M. Mascarot 
himself. I am sent here by one of his 
friends.” 

This simple declaration seemed to im- 
press the indifferent gentleman, who an- 
swered in a tone that was almost cour- 
teous : 

“My partner is at this moment much 
occupied, sir, he will soon be at leisure ; 
he good enough to take a chair.” 

Paul saw no chair, but seated himself on 
a bench, and, having nothing better to do, 
applied himself to a close examination of 
the man before him. 

Tall and athletic, radiant with health 
and good-living, this partner of Mascarot*s 
wore his hair very short, and under a nose 
with wide-spread nostrils wore a fierce 
moustache, oiled and waxed to a most 
wonderful degree — stiffened, moreover, to 
a sharp point. Complexion, carriage, hair, 
and moustache, all revealed the man who 
has once been a soldier. He had served, 
in fact, so he said, in a cavalry regiment; 
and it was in this regiment, he added, that 
he had acquired the name by which he was 
now known, Beaumarchef — his real name 
being Durand. He was about forty-five 
years of age, which did not prevent him 
from enjoying the reputation of being a 
man who was still very handsome. 

His present occupation, which consisted 
merely of writing a succession of names 
in a long column, did not prevent him from 
holding a conversation with the woman in 
front of him. 

This client, who, from her appearance, 
was either a cook or a market-woman, was 
precisely one of those persons described 
in Paris as a “real jolly creature.” 

She punctuated her phrases with pinches 
of snuff, and expressed herself with the 
most abs )lute Alsacian accents. 

“ Come, ” said Beaumarchef, “ do you 
really mean that you wish a situation?” 


“ Yes. I do mean just that.” 

“You said the same thing the last time 
you were here, six months ago. We found 
a good place for you, and three days after 
you went into it you threw down your 
apron and your towels, and went ofi*.” 

“ And why should not I, if I did not 
need to work?” 

“ And now? ” 

“ And now, it is different. I have nearly 
used up all my savings.” 

Beaumarchef laid down his pen and 
looked at the stout woman; with a very 
shrewd expression, as if he was looking 
for confirmation of some previously con- 
ceived suspicion, and then said slowly : 

“You have been guilty of some great 
folly! ” 

She turned away her head, and without 
answering him directly, began to com- 
plain of the hardne s of the times, of the 
meanness of employers, of the rapacity of 
the young house-keepers, who did not" al- 
low their cooks to make their little com- 
missions at market, but went themselves. 
Beaumarchef nodded affirmativelj'-, pre- 
cisely as he had done a half hour previously 
to a lady who had uttered bitter complaints 
of her servants. His intermediate posi- 
tion entailed on him this kind of diplo- 
macy. 

Meanwhile, the stout woman had fin- 
ished. She took from out a well-filled 
pocket-book the amount of her fee, laid it 
upon the table, and said : 

“ Please, good Mr. Beaumarchef, regis- 
ter my name, Caroline Schimmel, and try 
and find me a good place. But it must be 
in the kitchen, you understand. I must do 
the marketing myself, and 1 won‘t have,^ 
the mistress dogging at my heels.” 

“Very well; we will see what we can 
do.” 

“Ah! if you would on'y find me a rich 
widower, that would suit me, or a young 
woman with a very old husband. Now, 
please look out for me, and 1 will call in 
to-morrow,” and taking a larger pinch of 
snuff' than any previous one, she withdrew. 

Paul, as he listened, was humiliated, and 
confounded to a degree. It was to Father 
Tantaine, he said to himself, that he was 
indebted for introducing him into such 
company. He would not wait, but while 
seeking some decent and plausible pretext 
for withdrawal, the door at the end of the 
room was thrown open, and two menc:ime 
in who were finishing their conversat on 
as they entered. One of them was young, 
well dressed, and with that air and car- 
riage — a certain dash of free ^ and easy 
ways — which some people mistake for 
good breeding. Several foreign orders 
glittered at his button-hole. The other 
personage was an old man with the look of 
a lawyer. He wore a heavy quilted dress- 
ing-gown ot brown merino, fur shoes, and 
kept on his head a velvet cap embroidered 
possibly by well loved hands. His thick 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


la 


beard was carefully cut ; he wore a white 
necktie, and a certain nearness of vision 
imposed on him the necessity of wearing 
blue spectacles. 

‘^Then, my dear sir,” said the young 
man, 1 may venture to hope, may 1 not? 
Do you forger that ” 

•‘1 have told you, Monsieur le Marquis,” 
answei ed the man with the white cravat, 
'‘that if I were the master there would be 
no question of your having what you 
want; unfortunately, I must consult my 
associates.” 

'• Then, my dear sir,” returned the mar- 
quis, “I rely on you.” 

Paul rose, reconciled to the house by the 
sight of tills young man thus decorated. 
The other, thought he, who has such a 
good face and looks like a lawyer, must be 
Slascarot himself. 

The marquis went away, and Paul has- 
tened to present himself, when Beaumar- 
chef came forward, and approaching the 
man in the white cravat, said, respect- 
fully : 

“ Whom do you think, sir, that I have 
just seen?” 

"Who, then? — speak,” returned the 
other, impatiently. 

" Caroline Schemel. You know ” 

"What! the former servant of the 
Duchess of Champdoce ?” 

" Precisely.” 

Mascarot returned an exclamation of 
joy. 

" That is a positive blessing! ” he cried. 
"Where is she living now?” 

This most natural question overwhelmed 
Beaumarchef with consternation. He who 
never failed— since it was one of the 
rules of the house— to ask the addre-s of 
all those whose names were inscribed upon 
his books, had absolutely forgotten to ask 
that of Caroline. 

The acknowledgment of this omission 
threw Mascarot into a violent rage — so vio- 
lent that he forgot himself so far as to 
utter an oath that would have shocked a 
London cabman. 

" Good heavens ! ” he exclaimed : " how 
can a man be such a devilish fool? Here 
is a woman who for live months we have 
been chasing from pillar to post — whom I 
have been in search of throughout the 
length and breadth of Paris. You knew 
this^ as well as I do myself ; and yet. when 
the merest accident brings her within your 
grasp, you quietly let her slip through 
your lingers and disa[)pear again.” 

" She will come back, sir; she said so; 
she will not care to throw away the money 
she paid for entrance fee.” 

" She ! what does she care for ten sous 
or ten francs? She will come back when 

she takes the notion, unless But no; 

a woman who drinks, and who is half crazy 
the best of times ” 

Here Beaumarchef, inspired by a sudden 
hope, took up his hat hurriedly. "She 


has this moment gone,” he exclaimed ; " I 
will run after her, and I am quite sure that 
I can bring her back w th me.” 

Mascarot stopped him. " You are not 
the keenest of bloodhounds, my dear sir. 
Take Toto-Chup’n with you; he is sharp 
enough, and is outside now with his chi^st- 
nuts. And if you overtake the woman, do 
not speak to her, but follow her unseen, 
and do not leave her. I wish to know 
hour by hour what she is dmng. Nothing 
is too trifling, you undersrand, to be re- 
peated to me.” 

Beaumarchef disappeared, and Mascarot 
continued to pour out his ill humor. 

"Such a fool!” he mutti'red. “If one 
could do only everything for oneself! I 
weary myself for months to find a c ue to 
a mystery that this w man has in her pos- 
session, and now she has again disappear- 
ed ! ” 

By this time Paul saw that his presence 
had been unnoticed. Annoyed by his in- 
voluntary indiscretion he coughed loudly. 

Mascarot turned around— fiercely and 
quickly. 

"Pray, excuse me,” said Paul. 

But Mascarot had already l egained his 
benignant expression. "Ah!” said he, 
courteously, "you are Paul Violaine, 1 be- 
lieve ! ” 

The young man bowed. 

"Excuse me lor a moment,” returned 
Mascarot; " 1 will return shortly.” 

He disappeared through the door at the 
end of the room, and Paul had hardly 
time to collect himself, before he heard his 
name called. 

" Come this way — I have no secrets for 
you ! ” 

Compared to the outer room MascaroPs 
private office was a most luxurious and 
superb a])artment — for it was quite appar- 
ent that the windows w 're occasionally 
washed, that the paper on the walls had 
been recently renewed, and in ad«lirion a 
carpet was on the floor. How many of 
the applicants at this office, even of those 
highest in the social scale, coul I boast of 
having penetrated to this sanctuary. Ex- 
traordinarily few. General discussions of 
the business of the day were held around 
Beaumarchef ’s table in the outer room, 
while the more private and more important 
affairs of the establishment were arranged 
in the twilight of this inner s in turn. 

Paul, however, ignorant of the customs 
of the place, could by no means appreciate 
the extraordinary distinction with which 
he was received. 

When he entered Mascarot was warm- 
ing himself before a good fire, seated in a 
comfortable arm-chair, with his elbow on 
his desk. 

And such a desk! It was a world in 
itself, and indicated that its proprietor was 
a man of a thousand different occupations. 

Books, and papers in files, rose moun- 
tain high, while a larger space was occupied 


14 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


by small squares of stout paper, on each of 
which was a name in large letters, and be- 
low, notes in a smaller and almost illegible 
hand. 

With a paternal gesture Mascarot pointed 
to a chair opposite to himself, and in the 
most bland and encouraging of tones, said : 

‘‘ Now let us talk.” 

It was clear that the absolutely patri- 
archal appearance of Mascarot was natu- 
ral. The best of actors could not have 
feigned the honest and benevolent ex- 
pression of his face. The repose of an 
honest, untroubled conscience rested there, 
and would have induced any one to say: 
“I should like to trust my whole future 
and my interests to him.” 

Paul basked in this atmosphere of hon- 
esty and rectitude, and was entirely subju- 
gated by it, as the weaker nature is by the 
stronger. 

He fully understood Father Tantaine’s 
enthusiasm, and blessed the happy chance 
that had thrown him in contact with such 
a person, and had prevented him from tak- 
ing the abrupt departure which he had been 
meditating a few minutes before. 

"‘I am told,” began Mascarot, ‘^that 
your resources arc insufficient for your 
support, or rather, that you are totally 
without any, and that you are anxious to 
take any position which will secure your 
independence. That, at least, is what I 
hear from my unlucky friend Tantaine.” 

He has been, sir, a most faithful inter- 
preter of my wishes.” 

‘‘Very well. Only before thinking of 
the future and entering into a discussion 
in regard to the present we will, if you 
have no objections, recapitulate the past. 
Paul started. Mascarot must have noticed 
this, for he added quickly : 

You will excuse the possible indiscre- 
tion, but it is absolutely essential that I 
should understand just what responsibili- 
ties I am about to assume. Tantaine says 
that you are a most charming young man— 
honest, sensible, and well brought up. Now 
that I see you, I am sure that he is correct 
in his estimate. But of course I can only 
deal with certainties, and you must under- 
stand that I must be certain of you before 
I can answer for you to thii d parties.” 

“Exactly, sir,” interrupted Paul, “and 
I am ready to answer any questions, for I 
have nothing to conce il.” 

A slight smile, unnoticed by the young 
man, quivered over the lips of Mascarot, 
and with a gesture to which all who knew 
him were accustomed, he replaced his 
spectacles on his nose. 

“ Thanks,” he said. “As to concealing 
anything from me — well, that is not so 
easy, perhaps, as you think.” 

He took from one corner of his desk a 
package of the square papers to which 
reference has been made, and shuffling 
them through his fingers as if they were a 
pack of cards, continued : 


“ You are named Marie-Paul Violaine? ” 
Paul bowed. “You were born at Poitiers, 
Rue des Vignes, on the 5th of January, 
1843. You are consequently in your 
twenty-fourth year.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ You are a natural child? ” This second 
quesTonhad surprised Paul; this last one 
bitterly stupefied him. 

‘ It is true, sir,” he answered, without 
seeking to conceal his astonishment. “But 
I really had no idea that Monsieur Tan- 
taine was so well informed. I fancy that 
the slight wall which separated our rooms ■ 
was even thinner than I imagined.” 

Mascarot took no notice of this neat little 
epigram, but continued to shuffle his bits 
of paper, and examine them. 

If Paul had examined these papers, he 
would have seen his own initials, P. V., in 
the comer of each. 

“Your mother,” continued Mascarot, 
“ kept for the last fifteen years of her life, 
a little thread and needle shop? ” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ But what is such an enterprise worth 
in a place like Poitiers? Not much, to be 
sure. Fortunately, she received for your 
support and education an annual amount 
of one thousand francs.” 

This time Paul fairly started to his feet. 
This secret he was sure that Tantaine had 
not learned at the Hotel du Peron. 

“ Good heavens I ” he stammered, “ who 
could have revealed to you, sir, a secret of 
which I have never spoken since I reached 
Paris, and of which Rose is utterly igno- 
rant? ” 

Mascarot shrugged his shoulders. “ You 
may easily understand,” he answered, 
“ that a man in my position is obliged to 
acquire every possible information. If I 
did not take considerable pains in doing so, 

I should be the hourly victim of decep- 
tions — and in my turn should find myself, 
unwillingly deceiving others.” 

It was not an hour since Paul crossed the 
hreshold of this establishment, but he 
had already learned how many of these 
“particulars” had been acquired; for he 
remembered the directions given to Beau- 
marchef. 

“ Although I am curious,” continued 
Mascarot, “I am also discreet. Do not 
fear, then, to answer frankly. How did 
this annuity reach your mother?” 

“ Through an attorney in Paris.” 

‘ ‘ Ah I Do you know this person ? ” 

“ Not in the least,” answered Paul, who 
by this time began to grow uneasy and 
restless under the interrogations. A thou- 
sand vague apprehensions were aroused in 
his mind ; he could, however, see neither 
the utility nor the bearing of any of these 
questions. The explanation that had been 
offered did not seem in any degree satis- 
factory, for it was hardly possible that all 
these facts could have been gathered to- 
together in any one morning.” 


THE 8LAVES OF PABIS, 


15 


And yet nothing in Mascarot’s demeanor 
justified the misgivings of the young man. 
He seemed to ask all these questions in a 
mechanical, matter-of-course sort of way, 
as if they had no interest for him save as a 
business aftair. 

It was after a long silence that Mascarot 
spoke again : 

^•1 aiii inclined to believe,” he said, 
‘•that it was yon fellow who sent this 
monej^” 

Xo, sir, you are mistaken.” 

“ Why are you so certain?” 

Simply because my mother swore to 
me, and she was an absolute saint, that my 
father died before my birth. Poor moth- 
er! I loved her and respected her too 
much to question her on these points. 
One day, however, impelled by a misera- 
ble curiosity, 1 did venture to ask her the 
name of our protector. She burst into 
tears, and I realized the cruelty and mean- 
ness of my conduct. That name I never 
learned, but 1 know that it was not my 
father.” 

Mascarot pretended not to see the evi- 
dent emotion of his young client. 

Was not this pension continued after 
your mother's death?” he asked. 

“ Xo, sir ; it ceased, in fact, when I came 
of age. My mother warned me that this 
would be the case ; it seems to me that it 
was only yesterday when she spoke to me 
about it. It was one evening, and, as it 
was my birthda 3 % she had prepared a bet- 
ter supper than usual, for she, who should 
have mourned my coming into the world, 
rejoiced in it. Poor mother! ‘Paul,’ she 
said, ‘ when you were born, a generous 
friend promised to assist me in bringing 
3 mu up. He has kept his word. You are 
twenty-one, and you have nothing more to 
hope from him. You are a man now, ni}'- 
son, and I have only you to rely upon ; 
work at some honest toil, and remember 
that your birth imposes on you double 
obligations.’ ” 

Paul stopped, overwhelmed by emotion. 
“Ten months later,” he resumed, after a 
moment's silence, “ my mother died sud- 
denly — so suddenly that she had no time 
for a last word of affection or counsel. 
I was left alone in the world without 
friend or relative. Yes, I am totally 
alone. Were I to die to-morrow, there 
would not be a human being to follow 
me to my grave. I might disappear from 
off the face of the globe, and there would 
not be a soul to inquire for me — for no 
one knows or cares that 1 exist.” 

Mascarot looked very sad. “ Xot quite 
so bad as that, young man, not quite so 
bad, I trust. You have one friend ” 

Here Mascarot arose as if he wished to 
conceal the emotion which he could not 
control, and walked up and down the 
room, still wearing the velvet cap which 
he always assumed when occupied in 
serious meditations. After a few moments 


of this exercise, he stopped suddenly be- 
fore his young client, and stood with his 
arms folded. 

‘"You have heard me, my young friend,” 
he said, “ and I will not further pursue a 
series of questions to which it can only 
pain you to reply.” 

"" I thought,” answered Paul, diplomatic- 
ally, “ that it was only my interest that 
dictated these questions.” 

“You are right. I wished to measure 
you. to judge of your truth, as well as of 
your intelligence. AVhy? you ask. Ah! 
that I cannot tell you, but you will know 
at some future time. For the present, rest 
assured that I am perfectly well aware of 
everything that concerns jmu. You ask 
how? That again I cannot tell you. Put 
it down to chance. Chance, you know, 
has a vast deal to answer for.” 

Up to this moment Paul had been simply 
puzzled. But these ambiguous words 
caused him such absolute terror, that it 
was visible upon his mobile countenance. 

“Are jmu frightened?” said Mascarot, 
straightening his spectacles, through which 
he saw wonderfully well. 

“ Frankly, sir,” stammered Paul, “ I am 
somewhat disturbed.’' 

“ Why? I ask you what a man in your 
position can possibly have to fear. You 
need not rack your brain any longer ; you 
will find out what you seek to know, and 
jmu had best, therefore, quietly give your- 
self up to me, for I have no wish except to 
be of service to you.” 

He said this in the sweetest and most re- 
assuring of tones, and as he resumed his 
seat in his arm-chair, he added : 

“And now let us speak of yourself. 
Thanks to your mother's devotion, who 
was, as you justly say, a good and holy 
wom in, and who at the price of number- 
less privations permitted jmu to complete 
your studies at the college at Poitiers, as 
any boy of family and position would 
have done. At eighteen you entered a 
lawyer’s office — am I not right? ” 

’• Precisely ” 

“ But your mother’s dearest dream was 
to see you established near at hand, at 
Loudon or at Cevray. Perhaps she hoped 
for further aid from the friend who had 
already done so much for you. Unfor- 
tunately for her hopes, however,” con- 
tinued Mascarot, “ you had no leaning 
towards her boxes and red tape ” 

Here Paul smiled. This smile seemed to 
offend Mascarot, who added, severely : ^ 

“ I said ‘ unfortunately.’ And I think 
you have suffered enough by this time to 
be of my opinion. Instead of studying 
law, you did what? You trifled away 
your time in music ; you composed songs, 
and even an opera, I believe ; and were not 
far from putting yourself down as a genius 
of the first water.” 

Paul, who up to this time had submitted 
to everything without rebellion— was 


16 


THE 8 LAVES OF PABIS. 


struck to the heart by this sarcasm — now 
tried to protest, but all in vain. 

In short,” continued Mascarot, “ one 
fine morning you abandoned your law 
studies, and declared to your mother that 
while waiting until your fame as a com- 
poser should be known you would give 
lessons upon the piano. But you could 
not obtain any pupils, and you were a sim- 
pleton to think it possible that you could. 
Look at yourself in a mirror and tell me 
frankly if you think you are of an age or 
appearance that would make it wise to in- 
trust young ladies to your charge ” 

Here Mascarot stopped, as if he feared to 
trust his memor}^, and proceeded to con- 
sult his notes. 

Let us proceed,” he said, at last. 
‘‘Your departure from Poitiers was your 
last and greatest folly. The very day alter 
your mother's death, you gathered to- 
gether all you possessed, about a million 
of crowns, and took your seat in the rail- 
cars.” 

“ At that time, sir, I hoped ” 

“What? To arrive at Fortune by the 
road to Glorj*^? Idiot! Every year a 
thousand poor devils, who have been in- 
toxicated by the praise of their native 
villages, enter Paris intoxicated by similar 
hopes. Do you know what becomes of 
them? At the end of ten years, ten at the 
most, five hundred out of the thousand 
have died of hunger and disappointment — 
and the rest are enrolled in the vast army 
of criminals and reprobates.” All this 
Paul had said to himself over and over 
again, he therefore could say nothing m 
reply. “But,” continued Mascarot, “you 
did not come alone. You had fallen in 
love with a young sewing girl in Poitiers, 
a certain Pose Pigorean, and you thought 
it an act of wisdom to rup away with 
her ” 

“ Ah ! sir, if you would only permit me 
to explain ” 

“ It would be quite useless, I assure you. 
The results speak for themselves I In six 
months your three thousand francs had 
disappeared, then came distress and hun- 
ger, and at last, in the Hotel du Peron 
you thought of suicide, when you were 
saved by my old Tantaine.” 

These cruel truths were hard to bear, 
and Paul felt hot with anger, which he 
dared not show, however, lest he should 
lose the kind protection of the powerful 
being before whom he quaked. 

“ I admit it, sir,” he said, with quiet bit- 
terness; “I was a fool, and half crazy, 
but misfortunes have taught me wisdom. 
I am here, and this fact should convince 
you that I have renounced all my vain 
chimeras.” 

“ Well, you also renounce Rose Pigo- 
rean? ” 

The young man to whom this rude ques- 
tion was so abruptly addressed, turned 
livid with rage. 


“ I love Rose,” he said, coldly ; “ I think 
I told you so. She has faith in me, and. 
shares courageously all my ill fortune. I 
am sure of her affections ; and Rose, sir,, 
will be my wife some day in the future.” 

Mascarot lifted his velvet cap from his-^ 
head and, with the most serious air, and 
without the least shade of irony, bowed 
very low, sa3dng, as he did so : “I beg 
ten thousand pardons.” 

“ You want an employment,” he con- 
tinued, “ and at once. What do you know 
how to do? Very little of anything, I 
fancy. You, like all youths educated in. 
these colleges, can do a little of every- 
thing, and nothing thoroughly, if I had: 
a son, and an income of millions, he should 
still learn a trade.” 

Paul bit his lips, recognizing only too 
well the justice of the measure that had 
been taken of him. Had he not, too, only 
the evening before envied the lot of those* 
who earned their bread by the sweat of 
their brows? 

“And now,” continued Mascarot, “I 
have come to your assistance. And what 
do you say to a situation with a salary of 
twelve thousand francs? ” 

This sum, compared to the most auda- 
cious hopes of Paul, was so fabulous that 
he concluded Mascarot was simply amus- 
ing himself with his ignorance. 

“ It is not very generous in you, sir, tO' 
laugh at me at this time.*’ 

Mascarot was not laughing nor in jest,, 
but it required a full half hour to prove ta 
his young client that he was entirely in 
earnest. Perhaps he would not tnen have 
succeeded in this attempt had it not sud- 
denly occurred to him to say ; 

“You wish proofs. Very well — shall I 
advance your first month's salary?” and he 
extended a note of a thousand francs,, 
which he had taken from the drawer of his 
desk. 

Paul pushed aside the note, but he real- 
ized the full force of this powerful argu- 
ment, and he then asked if he were, capa- 
ble of fulfilling the duties of an office 
important enough to pay such a salary. 

“ Should I propose it to you,” answered 
Mascarot, “were I not certain of your 
abilities? Were I not so hurried just now 
I would explain to you the whole matter,, 
but must defer doing so until to-morrow. 
Be here, therefore, at the same time that 
you came to-day.” 

Bewildered as Paul was, he understood 
that to linger longer would be an intru- 
sion, and rose to depart. 

“ One moment,” said Mascarot. “ Vou 
understami, of course,, that you must not 
remain any longer at the Hotel du Peron. 
Look for a room in this quartei', and as 
soon as you have found one bring the ad- 
dress. Good-bye, my boy, until to-mor- 
row, and learn to bear prosperity.” 

For more than a minute Mascarot stood 
outside the door of his office, listening with 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


17 


attentive ears to Paul’s retreating steps. 
The young man departed, almost stagger- 
ing under the weight of so many diilerent 
emotions. 

When Mascarot was quite certain that 
Paul had disappeared around the corner, 
he ran to a glass door which opened into 
his sleeping-room, and called in a loud 
whisper : 

Hortebise, come ! He is gone ! ” 

A man immediately made his appearance, 
and hastily drew a chair to the lire. 

“My feet are pieces of ice!” he ex- 
claimed. “ If some one should cut them 
off with an axe I doubt if I should know 
it. Your room, Baptiston, is a refrigera- 
tor. Another time please give me a fire.” 

But nothing disturbed Mascarot’s cur- 
rent of thought. 

••Did you hear?” he asked. 

“ 1 heard every thing and saw everything 
quite as well as you did.” 

“ Well, and what do you think of this 
youth?" 

“I think that Tantaine is a man of sense 
and of strong will, and that in his hands 
this handsome youth will be like wax.” 

CHAPTEB III. 

THE VIEWS OF DR. HORTEBISE. 

Dr. Hortebise, this intimate of “the 
agency ” who called Mascarot thus famil- 
iarly by his first name of Baptiston, was 
about fifty-six years of age. He called 
himself forty-nine, and was wise in doing 
so. for he carried their weight so lightly 
that people supposed him still younger. 
His heavy, sensual lips were still red, his 
hair black, and his eyes full of fire. 

A man of the world, and of the best 
world; elegant in his manners, keen in his 
wit, vivid in his peiceptions, he concealed 
under a certain light sarcasm of speech the 
most monstrous C v nicism. He was much 
liked and much courted. He had few 
faults, but several appalling vices. Under 
this epicurean exterior lay, it was said, the 
s ivant and distinguished physician. If he 
was not what is called a worker and a stu- 
dent. it was because he attained the results 
of study and of work without toil. Some 
few years before we meet him he had, one 
fine morning, suddenly become a homeo- 
path, and started a medical journal called 
the Globule^ and which ended after the 
fifth number. This conversion made 
every one laugh, he, however, laughing 
with them, which, of course, proved the 
sincrrity of the philosophy which he pro* 
fessed. But Dr. Hortebise never wished, 
or was able to take anything seriously. 
Just now, however, Mascarot, well as he 
knew his friend, seemed annoyed and 
wounded at his jesting tone. 

“ If I wrote to you to come here this 
morning,” he said, reproachfully — “If I 
asked you to conceal yourself in that 
room ” 


“ Where I froze ? ” interrupted Hortebise. 

“It was,” continued Mascarot, •Hhat I 
wished for jmur advice. We have started 
on a terrible enterprise, Hortebise : an en- 
terprise full of peril to you quite as well as 
to me ” 

“Pshaw! I have in you, as you very 
well know, the most absolutely blind con- 
fidence. Whatever you do is well done. 
You are not the man to throw away your 
trumps in this game.” 

‘ ‘ That is very true ; but I may lose, and 
then ” 

The doctor interrupted his friend by 
shaking gaily a large gold locket that hung 
upon his watch chain. This gesture 
seemed peculiarly disagreeable to Masca- 
rot. 

“ Why do you show me that gew-gaw? ” 
he asked, angrily. “ We have known each 
other for twenty-five years. What do you 
mean to imply — that the locket contains 
the likeness of a person whom you intend 
to use if necessary? All right; the pre- 
caution is praiseworthy; but I think it 
would be wiser to aid in making such a step 
unnecessary bj'' giving your attention and 
your advice at an earlier stage of the 
game.” 

The smiling physician threw himself 
back in his chair with a resigned expres- 
sion. 

“If you wish a consultation,” he said, 
“ you had best ask in my place your hon- 
orable friend Catenae ; he knows something 
of business, as he is a lawyer.” 

This name of Catenae so irritated Mascai® 
rot that, calrne t and most contained of 
men as he was, he tore oft' his velvet cap 
and tossed it in a rage on his desk. 

“ Do you say this seriously?” he asked, 
with considerable anger in his voice. 

“ Why should I not? ” 

Mascarot took off' his spectacles, as if 
without them he could more easily read 
the innermost thoughts of the man before 
him. 

“Because,” he said, slowly, “because 
you as well as I distrust Catenae. How 
long is it since you saw him ? It is ceiv 
tainly more than three months.” 

“Very true; and I admit that he con- 
ducts himself singularly enough toward 
his old associates and comrades.” 

Mascarot smiled in a way that would 
have occasioned the unfortunate Catenae 
some most disagreeable refiections had he 
been present. You will admit, then^ that 
his conduct is utterly without excuse. We 
have made his fortune, for he is rich — very 
rich — although he pretends to the con- 
trary. 

“ Do you really think so?” 

“ Were he here, I would make him ac- 
knowledge to you that he is worth over a 
million.” 

“A million!” repeated the physician, 
witht a sparkle in his ej^es. 

“ Yes, at the very least. Y"ou and I, 


18 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


Hortebise, have gratified all our caprices, 
have let gold slip through our fingers like 
grains of sand, while he, our friend, gath- 
ered them up and hoarded them. 

What would you have? He has neither 
tastes, stomach, nor passions, this poor 
Catenae.” 

‘‘ He ! He has every vice, the hypocrite ! 
While we amused ourselves, he let out 

money at heavy interest, and Stay — 

how much are your yearly expenses?” 

‘‘My yearly expenses? Your question 
embarrasses me. Forty thousand francs, 
perhaps.” 

‘'More, much more; but no matter. 
Calculate how much that would amount to 
for the twenty years wherein we have been 
connected.” 

The doctor was no lover of arithmetic ; 
he made several futile attempts, and gave 
them up in despair. 

Forty and forty,” he said, counting on 
his fingers, makes eighty — then forty 
more ” 

Stop,” said Mascarot; “call it eight 
hundred thousand francs; add the same 
amount on my account, and see what that 
would be.” 

“ Why, it is frightful!” 

“To be sure, frightful. So you can 
easily see that Catenae, who had the reve- 
nues as you and myself, has grown rich. 
And this is the principal reason of my dis- 
trust ; our interests are no longer the same. 
He comes here every month, but only to 
draw his third. He condescends to accept 
the benefits of our enterprise, but avoids 
the risks. It is two years since he brought 
us any business. There is no reliance to 
be placed upon him whatever. No matter 
what we propose to him, he declines to act. 
He sees risks and danger in everything.” 

“ But he is incapable of betraying us.” 

Mascarot did not reply at once ; he re- 
fiected. 

“ I think,” he answered, finally, “that 
Catenae is afraid of us. He knows that 
the fall of one of the three would neces- 
sarily pull down the two others. This is 
the one sole safeguard. But if he does not 
dare to bi'tray us openly he is quite capable 
of working against us. One conviction 
weighs upon us. Do you know what he 
said to me the very last time that he was 
here? He said we ought to shut up shop 
and retire. Retire! Ah, well, and how 
should we two live then ? For, while he is 
rich we are poor. What are you doing, 
Hortebise?” 

The doctor, that brilliant physician who 
was believed to be worth millions, had 
taken out his portmonnaie and was count- 
ing its contents. He answered with a 
laugh : 

“I have precisely three hundred and 
twenty-seven francs. And how do you 
stand?” 

Mascarot made a wry face. “I,” he 
answered, “am worse off than you; and 


besides,” he continued, in a low voice, as 
if speaking to himself, “1 have sacred ob- 
ligations which you have not.” 

A cloud, the first since the beginning of 
this interview, rested on the countenance 
of Dr. Hortebise. 

“ Good heavens !” he exclaimed. “I de- 
pended on you for a thousand crowns, of 
which I stand in pressing need.” 

The uneasiness of the physician caused 
a quiet smile to fiicker over Mascarot’s 
face. 

“ Be easy,” he said, “ I can accommo- 
date you. There should be six or eight 
thousand francs in the safe.” 

The doctor breathed more freely. 

“But that is all,” continued Mascarot ; 
“it is the end of our common funds — of 
the money belonging to us as a body. And 
this, too, after twenty years of work, of 
peril, and of suspense.” 

“And there are not twenty years more 
before us.” 

'“Precisely,” returned Mascarot; we are 
growing old. So much the greater reason, 
therefore, for making one grand stroke to 
assure our future. Were I to fall ill to- 
morrow, our agents would ruin us.” 

“That is quite true,” said the doctor 
with a shudder. 

“One thing is certain — that we must 
speedily make a grand coup, I have said 
this for years, and have woven a web of 
surprising magnitude. Do you now un- 
derstand why, therefore, at this last mo- 
ment I address myself to you, and not to 
Catenae? Do you understand why I ha . ) 
spent two hours in explaining to you the 
plan of two operations which I have in 
view?” 

• “If one only should succeed, our for- 
tune is made.” 

“Precisely. The question now to de- 
cide is, whether our chances of success 
are great enough to warrant our going on 
with these enterprises. Think about this, 
and give me an answer.” 

An acute observer would have discov- 
ered that Dr. Hortebise, in spite of his 
frivolous appearance, was a man clever 
and fertile in expedients, and the safer 
counsellor in peril, for the reason that 
never, in any circumstances, did he ever 
lose his smiling sang froid. 

Mascarot knew very well what he was 
doing when he insisted on having his 
opinion. 

Driven to the wall and compelled to 
choose, as one might say, between the con- 
tents of the medallion and the continuance 
of his luxurious existence, he lost some- 
thing of his gayety, and seemed to refiect. 
Leaning back in his arm-chair with his 
feet upon the mantel, he analyzed the 
various combinations which had been laid 
before him as carefully as a general would 
have studied the plan of a battle on which 
the fate of an empire depended. 

This analysis was favorable to the enter- 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


19 


prise, for Mascarot, who was attentively- 
watching the doctor, saw by degrees a 
smile curving his red lips. 

Then after a long silence he spoke. “ We 
must make an attack,” he said. “ Do not 
let us deceive ourselves. Your projects 
are excessively dangerous, and a mistake 
on our [)arts would ruin us. At the same 
time, it were useless for us to wait for an 
affair that is perfectly safe. Here we have 
twenty chances against us, but we have 
twenty in our favor. Under these cir- 
cumstances, and, above all, as necessity 
knows no law, I can only say, go ahead !” 

He rose to his feet as he uttered these 
words, and extended his hand to his honor- 
able friend, with ihe words : 

‘‘ I am your man ! ” 

This decision delighted Mascarot. He 
was in that state of mind^ when no matter 
how strong and self-reliant a man may 
generally be, he is in momentary doubt of 
himself, and in his hesitation, the appro- 
bation of a powerful friend is of immense 
value. It is the weight that turns the 
trembling scale. ‘‘You have weighed 
everything,” insisted Mascarot; “exam- 
ined everything. You know that of these 
two matters, only one is ripe, that of the 
Marquis de Croisenois ” 

“Yes, yes, I know.” 

“ As to the other, that of the Due de 
Champdoce, I have still to gather to- 
gether some indispensable elements of suc- 
cess. In the lives of the duke and the 
duchess there is a secret. Of this fact 
there is not the shadow of a doubt, but 
what is this secret? Is it what I suspect? 
I would wager anything that I am right, 
but more than suspicions are necessary — 
more than probabilities — and I must have, 
of ( ourse, absolute certainty. And now,” 
continued Mascarot, “this brings us back 
to my previous question. What do you 
think of this youth, this Paul Violaine? 
Hortebise took several turns up and down 
the room, and finally took his place oppo- 
site his friend with his elbow on the chim- 
ney piece. 

It was his favorite position when, in a 
salon, after being duly urged, he related 
one of those somewhat questionable anec- 
dotes which were received for their wit, 
and which were his specialties. 

“ I think.” he answered, “ that this 
youth has many of the qualities we desire, 
and that it is doubtful if we can find a bet- 
ter person. Besides, he is a natural son, 
and knows nothing of his father, which 
leaves a door open wide for suppositions ; 
for every bastard has the right, if he 
chooses, to believe himself the son of a 
kin^. In the second place, he has neither 
family nor any known protectors, which 
assures us that, come what will, we shall 
have no account to render to any one. Be- 
sides he is poor. He has no great amount 
of sense, but is possessed of a certain bril- 
liancy and of any amount of egregious 


vanity. To be sure, he is a wonderfully 
handsome fellow, which, in itself, will 
smooth away many difficulties ; only ” 

“ Ah ! there is an ‘ only,’ then? ” 

The doctor concealed a smile. “More 
than one,” he replied, “ for there are three, 
at least. First, this young woman, this 
Bose Pigorean, whose beauty has ^so en- 
raptured our worthy friend Tantaine, 
seems to me a great danger in the future.” 

Mascarot waved his hand significantly. 
“Be tranquil,” he said, “we will easily 
disembarrass Paul of this young woman. 

“Very good. But do not deceive your- 
self,” insisted the doctor, in a more serious 
tone than was habitual to him ; “ the dan- 
ger from her is not what you think, and 
which you seek to avoid. You are per- 
suaded that this youth loves the girl ; you 
are mistaken. He would leave her to- 
morrow for the smallest gratification of 
his self-love.” 

“ It is quite possible ! ” 

“ But she who to-day thinks she hates 
her lover, deceives herself. She is simply 
wearied of poverty. Give her a month of 
repose, of luxury, of gratified whims and 
good living, and you see her turn from all 
to come to her Paul. Yes, you will see 
her pursue, harass and annoy him as 
women of her class, who have nothing to 
lose, pursue and annoy their old lovers — 
she will go to Flavras very fast and claim 
him there.” 

“ She had best not ! ” said the gentle offi- 
cial, in a menacing tone. 

“ Why, what could you do? How could 
you prevent her from speaking? She has 
known Paul since her infancy, she knew 
his mother — she was brought up by her 
perhaps; perhaps lived in the same street. 
Remember my words and look out for 
danger in this direction.” 

“You are right possibly, and I will take 
my measures accordingly.” 

It sufficed, in fact, for Mascarot only to 
know of a danger to guard against it. 

“ ,My second * only,’ ” continued the phy- 
sician, “is inspired by that mysterious 
protector of whom this young man has 
spoken. His father is dead, he declares, so 
his mother has sworn. So he is. I accept 
this statement as a fact. In that case how- 
ever, what has become of the unknown 
who paid the annuity to Madame Violaine? 
An immediate sacrifice of however large 
an amount, I could understand ; but a de- 
votion so unfiagging puzzles me, I con- 
fess.’’ 

“You are right, entindy right, my 
friend. These are the defects in our ar- 
mor. But I am on the lookout, my dear 
sir, and nothing escapes me.” 

The doctor was growing very weary of 
this discussion, but he went bravely on : 
“ My third objection,” he continued, “is 
perhaps stronger still. It is necessary for 
us to utilize this young man at once, to- 
morrow, even, without having had time to 


20 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


teach him his part, without having prepar- 
ed him. If, by chance, he should happen 
to be honest ! If to your much dazzling 
propositions he should reply by the adop- 
tion of a firm and categorical tone ! ” 

In his turn Mascarot now rose. 

'‘This supposition,” he declared, in a 
tone of calm indifference, " has no weight.” 

“ And why not, pray? ” 

" Because, doctor, when Tantaine 
brought this youth to us he had studied 
him thoroughly. He is weaker than a 
woman, with more vanity than the penny- 
a-liner around the corner. He is, besides, 
ashamed of his poverty. No, no ; in my 
hands he will be like wax, that I can mold 
into any form I choose. Whatever we 
choose him to be, he will become.” 

Hortebise did not choose to argue this 
point. " Are you sure,” he said, quietiy, 
“that mademoiselle counts for nothing in 
your choice? ” 

“ On this point,” replied Mascarot, “you 
will excuse me, if I decline explaining my- 
self ” 

“ He interrupted himself, and listened. 

“ Some one knocked,” he said. “ Hark ! ” 

The noise was repeated. The doctor 
hurried to disappear, when Mascarot de- 
tained him. 

“ Remain,” he said. “It is only Beau- 
marchef ; ” and as he spoke he touched a 
gilt bell that stood on his desk. The 
worthy agent was not mistaken; Beau- 
marchef appeared almost instantly. 

With an air half respectful and half fa- 
miliar, he made a military salute ; his hand 
to his forehead and his elbow raised to the 
height of his eyes. 

“ Ah ! ” said the doctor, gaily, “ do you 
still take your brandy and cold water reg- 
ularly? ” 

“Only a little, sir, very little,” he an- 
swered, modestly. 

“ Too much, Beaumar, much too much. 
Do you think I can’t see; your inflamed 
complexion, your nose, and your eyelids 
all tell the story.” 

“And yet, sir, I assure you — — ” 

“You know what I said to you, that 
you were threatened with asthma. Watch 
the movements of pectoral* muscles — the 
lungs are obstructed.” 

“ That is because I have been running, 
sir.” 

This conversation not being to the taste 
of Mascarot, he hastened to interrupt it. 

“ If he is out of breath,” he said, “it is 
because he has tried to repair a very great 
piece of carelessness on his part. “ Well, 
how did you succeed, Beaumarchef ? ” 

“ We have got her, sir,” he answered, 
triumphantly. 

“ That is well,” responded Mascarot. 

“ What are you talking about? ” asked 
the doctor.” 

With one finger on his lips, Mascarot 
gave his friend a warning glance, and 
then, in an off-hand tone that was by no 


means habitual, he answered : “ Caroline 
Schemel, an old servant in the Hotel 
Champdoce, who has a little matter of 
business with me. Go on, Beaumarchef — 
how did you find her? ” 

“ In consequence of an idea that came 
to me.” 

“ Pshaw ! Are you going to have ideas 
at this late hour of your life ? ” 

Beaumarchef looked vastly important. 

“This was it,” he continued. “Going 
out of this house with Toto-Chupin, I said 
to myself — one woman went up the street 
to be sure, but it is quite impossible that 
she went as far as the Boulevard without 
entering a wine shop.” 

“ Well reasoned,” nodded the doctor 
with approval. 

“In consequence, Toto and I, we just 
looked into every shop we passed; and 
true enough, before we got to La Rue Cur- 
reau, we found Caroline at a tobacconist’s 
who sold liquors.” 

“ And Toto is looking out for her now? ” 

“He swore to me, sir, that he would 
walk in her shadow until you said 
' enough ! ’ And, besides, he has promised 
to bring a report every day.” 

Mascarot rubbed his hands. “ I am 
pleased with you, Beaumarchef,” he said, 
“much pleased with you.” 

The compliment appeared to enchant 
the clerk. He dried his brow, but he did 
not withdraw. 

“This is not all, sir,” he resumed. 

“What then?” 

“I met down there La Candele, on his 
way back from La Place du Petit Pont, 
and he had just seen ” 

“ Ah, indeed ! What had he seen? ” 

“ That young woman, sir, driving away 
in a coupe with two horses. Of course, he 
followed, and she is now installed in La 
Rue de Douai, in a most gorgeous apart- 
ment, the concierge says. And it seems, 
sir, that the girl must be a great beauty. 
La Candele went on like a madman about 
her. He says that her eyes are extraordi- 
nary.” 

The doctor looked up quickly. “ Our 
friend Tantaine was correct in his descrip- 
tion, then, was he?” 

But Mascarot frowned austerely. ' ‘ Per- 
fectly so,” he answered, “ which proves, 
Hortebise, the justice of the objection you 
made a short time ago. A girl so wonder- 
fully beautiful as she is conspicuous, and 
the fool who has carried her off may even 
become dangerous himself under her in- 
fluence.” 

Beaumarchef ventured here to touch his 
master’s arm ; he had got another idea. 

“ If you wish to get rid of that dandy,” 
he said, “ I can tell you how.” 

Instead of answering, the clerk fell into 
the attitude of a fencing-master. “ One, 
two.” 

“ A Prussian quarrel,” murmured Mas- 
carot. “A duel! That would not do us 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


23 


any good. The girl would still be on our 
hands; and violent measures are always 
more or less compromising.” 

He reflected a moment, and then, taking 
ofi* his spectacles and wiping them slowly, 
he looked at the doctor intently. 

“ Suppose,” he said, ‘‘ that we should 
press some epidemic into the service. 
What do you say, doctor, to this girl hav- 
ing the small-pox ? Then her beauty would 
he gone.” 

The physician, hardened as he was, 
drew back in horror. 

“Under certain circumstances,” he an- 
swered, “ we might call science to our aid ; 
but Kose disflgured would be quite as dan- 
gerous as to-day. It is her devotion for 
Paul which we have to fear, not his for 
her ; and the fidelity of a woman is always 
in proportion to her ugliness.” 

“We will take this into consideration,” 
said Mascarot. “ In the meantime, we 
must simply protect ourselves from pres- 
ent danger. Some time ago, Beaumarchef , 
1 told you to draw up a summary of this 
Oandelu’s affairs. What is his situation?” 

“ He is overwhelmed with debts, sir, but 
his creditors do not press because of his 
prospective fortune ” 

“You area fool, Beaumarchef,” inter- 
rupted Mascarot. “It is impossible that 
among these creditors there are not some 
who would act as I desire. Find out and 
report to me this evening, and now leave 
us.” 

Once alone, the two friends remained a 
long time buried in silent reflection. The 
moment was a decisive one. They were 
still uncommitted to any course of action, 
but the time for inaction was past. They 
must go forward at once, or retreat im- 
mediately. The natures of these two men 
were strong enough to enable them to look 
the matter straight in the face and decide 
accordingly. 

The eternal smile of the doctor faded 
away, and it was with a feverish hand that 
he rattled his medallion. 

Mascarot spoke first. 

“ Let us deliberate no longer,” he said. 
^‘We will close our eyes and march on 
with a firm step. You heard the promises 
made by the Marquis de Croisenois. He 
gave us our task, but with certain condi- 
tions. He must be the husband of Mad- 
emoiselle de Mussidan.” 

“ It is impossible! ” 

“Not impossible since we wish it, and 
the proof of this is, that before two o’clock 
the present prospects of marriage between 
Mad(‘moiselle Sabine and the Baron de 
Breulh-FaverJay will be broken.” 

The doctor sighed. “ I comprehend 
Catenae’s scruples,” he murmured; “if 
like him I only had a million.” 

During these last few minutes Mascarot, 
going to and fro from his sleeping-room to 
his private office, was busy changing his 
dress. 


“Are you ready?” cried Hortebise, im- 
patiently; “ if so, pray let us be off.” 
Mascarot opened the door and called ; 
“Beaumarchef, a carriage.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

A PARISIAN VALET. 

If in the city of Paris there is one quar- 
ter more highly favored than another, it 
is that which lies between La Rue du Fau- 
bourg Saint Honore on one side, and the 
Seine on the other ; which commences at 
La Place de la Concorde, and ends at the 
Avenue de I’Emperatrice. In this com- 
fortable corner of this great city million- 
aires grow and blossom spontaneously like 
rhododendrons in certain altitudes. There 
stand their superb dwellings, with their 
spacious gardens, where the turf is always 
green and where flowers always bloom. 
Among all these hotels there is, however, . 
not one more magnificent or desirable in 
every particular than the Hotel de Mussi- 
dan, the last work of that poor Sevair, 
who died just as the world was beginning 
to recognize his merit. 

Standing between a vdde gravelled 
court-j^ard and a shady garden, the Hotel 
de Mussidan is elegant as well as magnifi- 
cent. There is but little carving around 
the windows and along the cornices, and 
nothing on the facade. Wide steps of 
white marble, protected by a light railing, 
lead to the wide double doors. 

In the morning about seven the rapid 
movements of the servants behind the iron 
fence that encloses the court-yard tells 
the story of the rich and luxurious house- 
hold. There stands the carriage of cere- 
mony, drawn out to be washed, or the 
count’s phaeton, or the simple coupe which 
Madame la Comtesse uses when she goes 
shopping. And that superb animal so 
carefully blanketed is Mirette, the favor- 
ite mounted by Mademoiselle Sabine in 
the morning before breakfast. 

It was at a short distance further on, at 
the corner of the Avenue Malignon, that 
Mascarot and his worthy friend stopped 
their carriage, and paying their coachman, 
dismissed him. Mascarot, with his black 
clothes, his dazzlingly white cravat, and 
his spectacles, might readily have been 
taken for some grave magistrate. 

The physician, although a little paler 
than was usual with him, was as smiling 
as ever. 

“ Now,” said Mascarot, “ let us see how 
you are received at Madame de Mussidan's. 
You are regarded by them as their friend.” 

“By no means. A mere physician, 
whose ancestors were not among the cru- 
saders, could hardly aspire to the friend- 
ship of the Mussidans.” 

“ But the comtesse knows you. She will 
not refuse to hear you, nor call for help 
when you open your lips. In retreating 
behind some nameless rascal you can save 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


20 

your own reputation. I, in my turn, will 
interview the count.” 

“Be careful,” said the doctor, medita- 
tively. “This dear count is frightfully 
violent. He is a man who, at the first 
word that he does not like, would not hesi- 
tate to pitch you out of the window. 

Mascarot shrugged his shoulders, 

“ I can bring him to terms,” he said, dis- 
dainfully. 

“ Be on your guard, nevertheless.” 

The two friends walked on past the 
Hotel de Mussidan, and the physician ex- 
plained briefly its arrangements. 

“I will manage the husband,” said Mas- 
carot, “ and you will take care of the wife. 
I shall insist to the count that he with- 
draws his word from De Breulh-Faverlay, 
but I shall not mention the name of the 
Marquis de Croisenois. You, on the con- 
trary, will come out with the Croisenois 
side of the affair, and will sleep over the 
name of Breulh-Faverlay.” 

“Be easy, my lesson is learned; I shall 
not forget it.” 

“ That is the beautiful part of the busi- 
ness, my dear doctor. The husband will 
be very anxious as to how his wife will 
take the change of base ; while she, in her 
turn, will be disturbed at the idea of tell- 
ing her husband her decision. When they 
meet after we have left them, the first who 
alludes to the rupture will be in no small 
degree astonished at seeing the other en- 
thusiastic in their consent. 

The situation appeared so extremely 
droll to the doctor that he laughed aloud. 

“ And as we approach them from such 
different directions,” he said, “they will 
never suspect any complicity between us. 
Decidedly, friend Baptiston, you are more 
ingenious than I supposed.” 

“ Wait awhile, and pay your compli- 
ments after you are certain of my success.” 

As they reached a cafe in Faubourg Saint 
Honore, Mascarot stopped. “Go in here 
and wait for me, doctor, while I make a 
certain call. I will stop here for you on 
my return, if it is yes ; I \\fill then present 
myself to the count, and twenty minutes 
later you will call on the countess.” 

The clock struck four when these honor- 
able beings separated. Dr. Hortebise en- 
tered the cafe, while Mascarot continued 
along the Faubourg Saint Honore. Hav- 
ing passed La Eue Cloysie, he stopped be- 
fore a wine shop and went in. The m is- 
ter of the establishment was so well 

* known in that quarter that he had not con- 
sidered it necessary to put his name upon 

• the sign. He was called Father Canon. 
The wine which he served to his customers 
over the counter was, as he honestly de- 
clared, not very good ; but he held in re- 
serve for certain customers — the servants 
of the neighborhood — a certain brand 
which was of especially good quality. 

On seeing a person of so severe an as- 
pect enter his shop. Father Canon took the 


trouble to come forward. In France, that 
land of smiles, a grave countenance is the 
best of passports. 

“What do you wish, sir?” asked the 
wine merchant, with immense suavity. 

“ I should like,” answered Mascarot, 
to speak to a man by the name of Flores- 
tan.” 

“In the service of the Comte de Mussi- 
dan, I believe.” 

“Precisel}^ — he made an appointment 
with me here ” 

“ He is below in the music-room,” said 
Father Canon; “ I will send for him.” 

“ Oh ! do not trouble yourself — I will go- 
down myself.” And not waiting for a re- 
ply, Mascarot went toward a staircase 
leading to a cellar. 

“It seems tome,” muttered Father 
Canon, that I have seen this lawyer be- 
fore.” 

The stairs were sufficiently wide, not 
very steep, and had a rail beside. Masca- 
rot descended about twenty steps and 
reached a false door, which he pushed 
open. Instantly, like a stream of gas 
through a crack, strange and terrible 
noises poured forth — Mascarot was neither 
terrified nor astonished, however. 

He descended three additional steps, 
pushed open another door like the first, 
and stood on the threshold of a huge 
vaulted room, arranged like a cafe, and 
lighted by gas, with tables and chairs all 
around, where many gay consumers of the 
best wine were seated. 

In the center of the room, two men in 
their shirt sleeves, with crimson faces, 
were blowing their trumpets, while near 
them an old man wearing long leather 
gaiters buttoning above the knee, and wide 
undressed leather belt with steel clasps 
over a red vest, whistled the air that tho 
trumpeters were playing. 

As Mascarot appeared and bowed po- 
litely with his hat in his hand, the trump- 
eters ceased to play and the old man to 
whistle, while a young fellow with superb 
moustache, low' slippers, and tightly 
drawn white stockings, exclaimed : 

“ Ah, it is Papa Mascarot — welcome — I 
expected you, and a fresh and clean glass 
is awaiting you.” 

Mascarot, without waiting to be urged, 
took a seat at the table and poured out a 
glass of wine, which he drank with evi- 
dent satisfaction. 

“Was it Father Canon,” resumed the 
young man, who was Florestan, “that 
told you where I was? It is a very good 
place to be in, do you not think so? ” 

“ I do indeed.” 

“ The police, you know, do not allow a 
trumpet to be blown in Paris ; so what does 
Papa Canon ? He has just settled us in this 
cellar; here we can blow as much as we 
like; we can’t be heard outside.” 

The two pupils having resumed their 
lessons, Florestan was obliged to place 


THE SLAVES OF FABISr 


23 


his two hands over his mouth to cany his 
voice, and to shout with the full force of 
his lungs. 

‘‘That Oldman,” he continued, “is an 
old groom in the service of the Due de 
Champdoce. He has not his equal with a 
trumpet. I have taken only twenty les- 
sons of him, and I already do wonders. I 
canj ” 

“Thanks,” cried Mascarot. “Some 
da}’-, when I have more time, I shall he 
charmed to hear you exhibit your acquire- 
ments ; but to-day I am somewhat hurried 
and 1 am anxious to have a few words in 
private with you.” 

“1 am agreeable; but I fancy that you 
will prefer another place for our conver- 
sation. Let us go up-stairs and ask for a 
private room.” 

Now these private rooms were not very 
luxurious, but they had the merit of ex- 
treme privac}^. They were divided from 
each other by glass windows, “and could 
tell strange stories, if they could speak,” 
said Florestan, as he took his place oppo- 
site Mascarot, at a small table on which 
Father Canon speedily placed a bottle of 
wine and two glasses. 

“I dare saj?-,” said Mascarot; “but 1 
care little for gossips. I asked you to 
meet me here, Florestan, as you are in a 
position to do me a small favor.” 

“ Anything in my power,” answered 
the young man. 

“ Now, then, we will begin by a few 
words about yourself. How do you get 
along with your Count Mussidan? ” 

A startling familiarity of speech and ad- 
dress was one of the characteristics of 
Mascarot. This revolted many of his 
clients, but Florestan was not one of 
these. 

“ I am not contented with my situation 
there; and I intend asking Beaumarchef 
to find something CiSe for me.” 

“ I cannot agree to this. All your pre- 
decessors in the consul’s service say that 
it is perfectly satisfactory.” 

“ Try it yourself, then,” interrupted the 
valet. “ In the first place he is whimsical 
as the wind : next, he is more suspicious 
than a cat. He never leaves anytiiing 
about, not a letter, nor a cigar, nor a louis. 
He spends half his time opening and shut- 
ting the locks, and sleeps with his keys 
under his pillow.” 

“I admit that such distrust is very gall- 
ing. Indeed it is : and, in addition, he is 
frightfully violent. His eyes fiash for 
nothing, and he looks as if he was going 
to kill you or knock you down twenty 
times in the day. To tell you the truth he 
frightens me.” 

This sketch, in addition to the warning 
of his friend Hortebise, seemed to render 
Mascarot very thoughtful. 

“Is the count always like this, or only 
occasionally?” 

“ Pie is always bad enough, but when he 


has been drinking or playing he is much 
worse. He never comes in until after four 
in the morning.” 

“ And what does the countess say to 
this?” 

Florestan laughed at this question. 

“Madame? She does not trouble her- 
self much about her lord and master, I 
can tell you. Sometimes they don't see 
each other for weeks : if she can only have 
plenty of money to spend, it is all she 
cares for. Then you should just see the 
creditors who swarm around the hotel.” 

“ But the Mussidans are very rich.” 

“Enormously rich; but nevertheless 
there are times when there is not a franc 
in the house. Then madame is like a 
tigress ; she sends round to borrow from 
all her friends; a hundred francs from 
one, fifty from another, even ten she asks 
for — and is refused too, sometimes.” 

“ But this is very humiliating.” 

“ Not to her. But when a really larger 
sum is required, then madame sends to the 
Due de Champdoce, and he nevei- says no. 
But she does not waste any words on 
him.” 

Mascarot smiled. “ One would think,” 
he said, “ that you knew what the countess 
writes when ” 

“ To be sure ! I prefer to find out what 
is in notes I cany. She says, simply, ‘ my 
friend, I have need of so much,’ and he 
pays without flinching. Of course it is 
easy to see that there is, or has been some- 
thing between them.” 

“ 1 should certainly think so.” 

“And then when my master and mis- 
tress do meet, it is only to quarrel. And 
such quarrels! In a mechanic’s home, 
when the husband has drank too much he 
thrashes his wife, and she screams and 
cries. But that is nothing. They kiss 
and make up, and it is all over. But these 
people sa}^ things to each other in cold 
blood that neither can ever forgive.” 

Mascarot listened to these details' with so 
absent an air that one might have believed 
him previously^aware of them. 

“ Then,” he said, finally, “ there is only 
Mademoiselle Sabine who is a pleasant 
person to serve.” 

“ Oh, she is always kind and civil.” 

“And you think her fiance, M. de 
Breulh-Faverlay, will be a happy man? ” 

“Happy enough, I suppose; but that 
marriage will perhaps ” 

Florestan stopped as if seized by a sud- 
den scruple. He looked around the small 
room as if to be sure that no one could 
hear him, and in a low voice, and in a most 
mysterious manner, continued : 

“Mademoiselle Sabine has been so left 
to herself that she is as free as if she were 
a young man. Do you understand? ” 

Mascarot became very attentive. “ Do 
you mean,” he asked, “ that the young 
lady has a lover?” 

“ Precisely.” 


M 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


‘ ^ But that is quite impossible ; and per- 
mit me to tell you that it is very wrong 
to repeat such an injurious supposition.” 

This simple remark seemed to excite the 
valet to a most extraordinary degree. 

‘‘Supposition!” he exclaimed. “I 
know what I know. If I talk of a lover 
it is because I have seen him with my own 
oyes — not once, but twice.” 

From the manner in which Mascarot 
hastily took off his spectacles, wiped and 
replaced them, Florestan saw that his hear- 
er was interested to the very highest de- 
gree. 

“ Tell me,” he exclaimed,” “ how this 
happened.” 

Well the first time was at church one 
morning, when my young lady went alone 
for pi-ayers. It began to rain suddenly, 
and Modeste, her maid, begged me to run 
with an umbrella. So off I started, and 
going in, what did I see? Mademoiselle 
herself standing near the henitrie^ talking 
with a young man. Naturallj^, I slipped 
behind a pillar and watched.” 

“ But this is not what you call a cer- 
tainty, is it?” 

“Why, of course; and so would you 
had you seen the way in which the two 
looked at each other.” 

“ What sort of a looking person was the 
young man?” 

“Handsome, about my height, and well 
made, with a certain air of distinction.” 

“ And when was the second time? ” 

“ Ah ! that is a long story. But one day 
I was told to accompany mademoiselle to 
one of her friends who lived in La Kue 
Marboeuf. On the corner of the avenue 
mademoiselle waited for me to come up. 
I did so. ‘ Florestan,’ she said, ‘ I forgot 
to post this letter ; run with it as quick as 
you can. I will wait here for you.” 

“ And you read this letter? ” 

“No, indeed ! I said to myself : There 
is something going on here. She wishes 
to get rid of you ; you will therefore re- 
main. So, instead of posting the letter, I 
hid behind a tree and waited. Scarcely 
had I disappeared than I saw the fellow 
whom I had seen in the church come quick- 
ly around the corner; but I had some diffi- 
culty in recognizing him. He was dressed 
like a common workman, in a blouse white 
with plaster. They talked for some ten 
minutes; mademoiselle gave him some- 
thing that looked like a photograph.” 

By this time the bottle was empty, but 
Florestan’s intention of calling for anoth- 
er was checked by Mascarot. 

“ No, no,” he said, “ it is growing very 
late, and it is time that I should say what 
I wish you to do for me. The count is at 
home at this hour, I fancy, is he not? ” 

“ I should rather think he was I He has 
not left his rooms for two days, in conse- 
quence of a step on the stairs.” 

“ Ah well, my boy, it is absolutely nec- 
essary that I should speak to your master. 


If I should send up my card he would not 
receive me, consequently I rely on you 
to introduce me into his presence.” 

For a few moments Florestan did not 
speak. 

“ What you ask -me to do is a pretty 
tough task, let me tell you. Count de 
Mussidan is with him just now. He does 
not like unexpected visitors ; but as I do 
not mean to stay with him, 1 will risk 
it.” 

Mascarot had risen. “We must not go 
together;” he said, “go on. I will settle 
here, and in five minutes will follow you. 
Remember you must not look as if you 
had ever seen me before.” 

“ Don’t be anxious, and remember and 
look out for a good place for me.” 

This being settled, the honest and punc- 
tilious Mascarot paid the account, and 
then called at the cafe to inform Dr. Horte- 
bise of his movements. A few moments 
later Florestan, in his sweetest voice, an- 
nounced to his master : 

“ Monsieur Mascarot.” 


CHAPTER V. 

B. MASCAROT. 

It is certain that “ B. Mascarot, the head 
of an intelligence office in La Rue Montor- 
gruil,” to use his own descriptive phrase- 
ology, was gifted with a prodigious amount 
of cool impudence. 

In his mind he had so often traveled 
over tlie unexplored field of all the proba- 
bilities and possibilities in the matter 
which he had in hand, that no realities sur- 
prised him, or could take him unawares. 
In his own mind he compared himself to 
those skillful cavaliers who, having ridden 
horses for a long time that were trained to 
throw their riders, could now without risk 
mount any kind of an animal; and yet 
Mascarot did not ascend the superb stair- 
case of the Hotel de Mussidan, without 
many misgivings — his limbs were extra- 
ordinarily heavy — and he was even con- 
scious that they trembled, while his heart 
beat quicker and quicker. It was twilight 
oat of doors, while within all was a blaze 
of light, when Florestan, after conducting 
the visitor across an ante-room, with a vel- 
vet-covered bench against the wall, opened 
the door of the library, a huge room, fur- 
nished in most severe style. 

At this plebeian name of Mascarot, which 
sounded as much out of place as the oath 
of a drunken man in the room of a sleeping 
child, M. de Mussidan raised his head 
quickly. 

The count was at the extreme end of the 
room, reading by the light of f our wax 
candles in a candelabra of the most exquis- 
ite workmanship. 

Letting his paper fall on his knees, he 
placed his g asses on his eyes, and looked 
with infinite surprise at the most worthy 
Mascarot, who, with his hat in his hand, 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


25 


and his heart in his mouth, was slowly ap- 
proaching, babbling most unintelligible 
excuses. 

This examination availed him little, and 
the count half rose, as he asked : 

Whom do you wish to see, sir? ” 
Yourself, the Comte de Mussidan,” 
stammered Mascarot ; and 1 trust, sir, 
that you will kihdly excuse me ” 

With an imperious gesture, the count 
cut short these apologies. ‘‘Wait!” he 
said, authoritatively. 

This time he rose entirely, strode with 
evident pain to the chimney, and pulled 
with violence the bell-rope" which hung 
there, and then resumed his seat. 

Mascarot still stood in the centre of the 
room in utter silence, asking himself if, 
after all his precautions, he was to be 
kicked out of doors. A moment later and 
he saw the door opened ; the faithful valet 
who had introduced the ‘‘ agent” appeared. 

“ Florestan,” said the count, in a calm, 
cold voice, “ this is the first time that you 
have allowed any one to enter my presence 
without your having received orders from 
me to that effect. If this happens a second 
time, 5 ^ou will leave my service.” 

“ I assure you, sir ” 

^‘That will do; I have told you what 
you may expect.” During these two or 
three minutes Mascarot studied the count 
with that intense attention caused by per- 
sonal interest. 

The Count Octave de Mussidan re- 
sembled in no one particular the liian de- 
scribed by Florestan. Since the days of 
Montague it is advisable not to trust to the 
portrait of a master drawn by a servant. 
The count, who was hardly fifty, looked at 
least sixty. His height was rather under 
that of the average man, and he seemed 
dried up rather than thin. His hair — on a 
bald head — was very thin, and his whisk- 
ers, which he wore very long, were snowy 
white. Either the sorrows or passions of 
life had caused deep wrinkles on his worn 
face, whose expression was more bitter 
than haughty, and told the story of a man, 
who. having drank life to its dregs, had 
no other wish now than to break the cup. 

Florestan went out. The count turned 
toward the intruder, and in the same icy 
tone, said: 

‘•Explain yourself, sir.” 

Mascarot had been received a hundred 
times after the most mortifying fashion, 
but never to such a degree as this. 

Wounded in his vanity, for he was as 
vain as all those persons who pride them- 
selves on possessing a mysterious power, 
he felt an imi^ulse of wild rage rise within 
him. 

“Pompous fool!” he said to himself; 
“ we will see if he is as proud as this in a 
little while.” 

But his face betrayed nothing of this. 
His attitude was as servile, his smile as ob- 
sequious as before. 


“ You have heard my name, sir; and as 
to my business, I am a general business 
agent.” 

Long practice had enabled Mascarot to 
utter these words in such honeyed accents 
that they actually deceived the count, who 
had neither a suspicion nor a presentiment ; 
he did not know that under those blue 
glasses were eyes that looked at him with 
absolute hate. 

•‘Ah!” he answered, with a resigned 
expression; “You are a business agent, 
are you? Some one of my creditors has 
sent you to me, then, I suppose. Monsieur 

‘‘ Mascarot, sir. Mascarot.” 

“ Mascarot, then — very well, sir — these 
people are absurd, as 1 have often told 
them. Why do they disturb me when I 
pay, without a frown, such extravagant 
interest? They know that they are safe. 
They know that 1 am rich, for I have a 
great fortune. If up to this time I have 
neither sold nor mortgaged — which last I 
consider the most ruinous thing a man can 
do — it is simply that I have not chosen to 
do so. I could receive a million to-morrow, 
only on my property in Poitou ; but I do 
not wish to raise money in this way.” 

The best proof that Mascarot had recov- 
ered his self-possession was, that instead 
of seeking !o bring back the count to the 
point from which he had wandered, he lis- 
tened attentively, hoping to profit by what 
he heard. 

‘‘You may carry back what I say,” 
added the count. “ to the people for whom 
you are acting.” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir, but ” 

“ But what?” • 

“ I cannot permit ” 

“ Permit nothing — it would be useless — 
all that I have promised I wdll adhere to. 
When the day comes when I wish to pay 
my daughter’s wedding dowry, I will also 
pay all my obligations, and not one moment 
before. 1 will simply add, that before 
long she will marry Monsieur de Breuhl- 
Faverlay. ThM is "all.” 

These last words signified very clearly ; 
“you may go!” 

Nevertheless, Mascarot did not move. 
With as quick a gesture as that of a fenc- 
ing master who adjusts his mask, he set- 
tled his spectacles, and without a tremor in 
his voice, said : 

“It is precisely this marriage that has 
brought me here.” 

The count could not believe that he had 
heard aright. ‘‘What do you say?” he 
asked. 

“ I say,” repeated the agent, “ that I am 
sent to you in connection with the mar- 
riage of Monsieur de Breulh and of your 
daughter. Mademoiselle Sabine.” 

When they spoke of the violence of the 
count's temper, neither the doctor nor 
Florestan exaggerated. On hearing his 
daughter’s name thus spoken by this un- 


26 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS. 


Ipiown man of business he grew crimson, 
and his e3^es fairly flashed fire. 

Be off! he said, sharply. 

But Mascarot had no intention of doing 
anything of the kind. 

‘‘ It is a matter of great importance,” he 
said. 

This persistence was the last touch to 
the count’s exasperation. 

"•You are determined to stay, then, are 
you?” he cried, and at the same time — 
painfully enough, on account of his injured 
leg — he rose to touch the bell once more. 
But Mascarot saw his intention. 

"" Take care ! ” he said ; if you ring ^mu 
will repent the whole of your future life.” 

This threat was too much for the count. 
Dropping the bell-rope, he snatched a cane 
standing near the chimney and rushed 
toward his visitor, who, without raising 
an arm or retreating an inch, said, in a 
steady voice : 

“No violence, count. Remember Mont- 
louis ! ” 

When to the warnings of Dr. Hortebise, 
Mascarot had answered: “Do not be 
troubled, I can master the count,” he had 
not tested his power. 

At this name of Montlouis, the count 
grew more w^hite than his handkerchief, 
and recoiled, dropping from his suddenly 
nerveless hand the cane he had grasped. 

A spectre, standing before him with out- 
stretched arms and denunciatory uplifted 
finder, could not have affected him more 
vividly. 

“Montlouis?” he murmured, “Mont- 
louis ! ” 

But Mascarot, assured of the sharpness 
of his weapons, had already resumed the 
humble mien with which he entered the 
room. 

""Believe me, sir,” he said, "‘when I 
assure you that it is only the imminent 
danger in which you stand that compels 
me to pronounce the name which must 
awaken in you such very painful recollec- 
tions.” The count hardly seemed to hear. 

"" It was not I,” resumed Mascarot, "" who 
conceived the idea of bringing up against 
you an accident like that ; I am simply an 
intermediary between persons I despise, 
and ^murself , for whom I entertain a very 
great respect.” 

B}^ this time the count had regained his 
self-possession and customary expression. 
“ I really do not understand 5mu, sir,” he 
said, in a tone which he vainly sought to 
make indifferent ; "* my emotion is only too 
easily explained. One day, in hunting, I 
had a terrible misfortune. I accidentally 
killed a poor young man, my secretary, 
who bore the name you have mentioned. 
The courts were called to give judgment in 
this horrible event, and after examining 
the witnesses, they decided that it was 
not to me, but to the unfortunate victim 
himself, that all carelessness was to be 
imputed.” 


Mascarot’s smile here was so satirical 
that the count stopped. 

"" Those persons whose mandate I obey 
in coming here,” said the agent, slowly, 
"" know perfectly well the testimony that 
was produced in court. Unfortunately, 
these persons also know the real facts!, 
which these honorable men had sworn to 
conceal at all cost.” 

The count started; Mascarot went on 
pitilessly. 

"" Reassure yourself, sir, jmur friend did 
not betray jmu voluntarily. Providence 
in its mysterious designs ” 

"" In short, sir,” interrupted the count, 
with a shudder. "" In short ” 

Until then Mascarot had remained stand- 
ing, and now seeing that there was no in- 
tention of offering him a seat, he drew up 
a chair and seated himself. At this audac- 
ity the count grew pale with anger, but he 
dared not open his lips, and this alone 
would have sufficed to satisfy all the doubts 
of the agent if he had still entertained 
them. 

‘"I will continue,” he said, familiarly. 
‘"The event to which we allude was wit- 
nessed by two persons — one of your 
friends, the Baron de Clinchan, and a groom 
named Ludovic Trofin, now in the service 
of the Count du Commarin.” 

""Idid not know what had become of 
Ludovic.” 

"" I dare saj^ but our people know. This 
Ludovic, when he swore to you eternal 
secrecy; was a bachelor. On marrjdng, a 
few, years later, he told the whole story to 
his young wife. This woman turned out 
badly, she had several lovers, and it was 
through one of these that the truth reached 
the last of those who sent me here.” 

‘* And it is on the word of a groom and 
the tattle of a worthless woman that they 
dare accuse me ! Me I ” 

Not one word of direct accusation had 
been uttered, and yet De Mussidan defend- 
ed himself. Mascarot noticed this, and 
smiled as he replied : 

"•We have other testimony than Ludo- 
vic’s.” 

"" Ah! ” said the count, who was certain 
of his friend’s fidelity. “ You do not pre- 
tend to say that the Baron de Clinchan has 
spoken?” 

The mental disturbance of this man of 
the world — of this distinguished gentle- 
man — must have been very great, for he 
did not perceive that each word that he 
uttered furnished his adversary with pew 
arms against him. 

‘"No,” answered the agent; ""he has 
done worse, he has written.” 

"" It is false! ” 

Mascarot was not disturbed. ‘"The 
baron has written,” he repeated, ""just as 
I say, only he thought he was writing for 
no eyes but his own. The Baron de Clin- 
chan, as you are well aware, is the most 
methodical man in the world, careful and 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


27 


orderly in trifles to an almost juvenile 
degree.” 

1 admiJ it, go on.” 

“ Consequently you will not be surprised 
to learn that from his boyhood this gentle- 
man has kept a journal, and every evening 
of his life he puts down in it the smallest 
details of the day’s events ; even to the va- 
riation of the temperature and of his 
health.” 

The count was fully aware of this pecu- 
liarity, which had cost his friend in their 
youthful days, many a practical joke. 
Now, however, he began to see his peril. 

‘"In learning this event through Ludo- 
vic,’’ continued Mascarot, “my employers 
decided that if the story was true, men- 
tion would be made of it in the baron’s 
diary. Thanks to the ingenuity and cour- 
age of certain parties, they have had in 
their possession for twenty-four hours the 
volume of the year 1842.” 

“ Infamous ! ” murmured the count. 

“They looked, and found not only one, 
but three distinct statements bearing on 
the event in question.” 

Monsieur de Mussidan started to his feet 
with so threatening an aspect, that the 
worthy Mascarot pushed back his chair in 
no small terror. 

“ Proofs ! ” said the count. “ Proofs ! ” 

“Nothing has been forgotten. Before 
returning the volume to its place, the 
three leaves with which you are so ulti- 
mately concerned were torn out ” 

“ Where are these pages?” 

Mascarot assumed immediately his most 
indignant air of insulted honesty. 

“i have not seen them,” “but they 
were photographed, and one of the proofs 
was entrusted to me, so that you might 
examine the writing.” 

At the same time he produced three 
proofs, admirably executed and wonder- 
fully clear. 

The count looked at them a long time 
with the most careful attention, and in a 
voice that betrayed his utter discourage- 
ment, he said : 

“ Yet it is his handwriting.” 

Not a muscle in Mascarot’s face indi- 
cated the pleasure with which he heard 
these words. 

“ Before going on with the matter,” he 
said, quietly, “ I consider it indispensable 
to understand the position of the Baron de 
Olinchan. Do you wish, sir, to read this 
to yourself, or shall I read it aloud? 

“ Bead,” answered the count, and added 
in a lower voice: “I cannot see.” 

Mascarot drew his own chair nearer the 
light. 

“I should judge that this entry was 
made the night of the accident. This is 
it : 

“ ‘ 1842, October 26^7i. Early this morn- 
ing I went out hunting with Octave de 
Mussidan. We were followed by Ludovic, 
a groom, and by a young man named 


Montlouis, whom Octave intends to take 
as his superintendent. The day opened 
gloriously. At noon I had bagged three 
hares. Octave was in the best of spirits. 
About one o’clock we were in the thick 
woods near Bevron. I was about fifty 
feet in front of the others, with Ludovic, 
when loud voices made us look around. 
Octave and Montlouis were having a most 
violent discussion, and we saw the count 
strike his future superintendent. I started 
to run to them, when Montlouis came to 
meet me. I exclaimed: “What is the 
matter?” Instead of answering me, the 
poor fool turned again toward his master, 
uttering threats, and at the same time one 
word, which, in Octave’s position as a man 
just married, was in the highest degree in- 
sulting. This word Octave heard. He 
had in his hand a loaded gun. He took 
aim and fired. Montlouis fell. We rushed 
to him: he never breathed again. The 
ball had gone through his heart. I was 
Ovei whelmed with consternation; but I 
never saw anything so terrible as Octave’s 
despair. He tore his hair, and fell on his 
knees by the side of the body. Ludovic 
was the only one of us who preserved 
his coolness. “ We must call this an ac- 
cident,” he said, promptly ; My master 
fired into the wood, supposing Montlouis 
to be in another direction.” We therefore 
carefully arranged our statement, and 
swore to each other not to flinch in our 
falsehoods. It was I who went before the 
court at Birron and made my afiidavit, 
which was received without suspicion. 
But what a day ! My pulse even now is 
eighty, I have a high fever, and I know 
that 1 shall not close my eyes. Octave is 
almost crazy, and God only knows what 
will become of him ! ’ ” 

Buried in his chair, the count listened 
to this without the smallest sign of emo- 
tion. Was he overwhelmed? Was he in 
search of some way of sending back to the 
oblivion of the tomb that phantom of the 
Past which suddenly appeared in his path? 
Mascarot watched him keenly. Suddenly 
he straightened himself up, like a man 
who, on awakening, realizes that he has 
been the plaything of a frightful night- 
mare. 

“This is utter nonsense,” he said, calmly. 

“ Very clear nonsense, at all events^” 
murmured Mascarot. “ Nonsense which 
might easily deceive the wisest of men.” 

“ Suppose I could prove to you,” re- 
sumed the count, "" that this recital is not 
absurd, but false ; that it is the hallucina- 
tion of a deranged man.” 

Mascarot shook his head sadly. 

“ We must not allow ourselves, sir, to 
be deceived by false hopes,” and he sighed ; 
“ for our awakening would be all the more 
terrible.” 

He said “ we ” daring thus to associate 
himself with the count, and the count, far 
from being indignant, smiled graciously. 


28 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


“We might maintaiu that the Baron de 
Clinchan had made this entry in a moment 
of temporary insanity, were it not for the 
fact that it is not the only one. Let me 
read the others.” 

“ Go on; I am listening.” 

“Three days later the following ap- 
pears : 

“*1842, Oct, 29th , — My health renders 
me very anxious. I feel neuralgic pains in 
all my joints ; this entire disturbance of my 
system comes from all this trouble about 
Octave. I was obliged to appear before 
a second tribunal, and the judge looked me 
through and through. I notice with ter- 
ror, that my second deposition varies some- 
what from my first, so I have learned my 
statement by heart. Ludovic is wonder- 
fully self-possessed and very intelligent. 
I should like to take him into mj^ ser- 
vice.” 

“I dare not go out lest I should meet 
people who insist on hearing all the partic- 
ulars of the accident. 1 think I have told 
the story nineteen times already.” 

“ Now,” asked Mascarot, “ what do you 
think of this?” 

“ Go on, sir.” 

“Willingly. The third allusion, although 
brief, is none the less important. It occurs 
a month after the event — 1842, November 
3rd. 

“ ‘ It is all over, thank Heaven ! I come 
this moment from the court room. Octave 
is acquitted; Ludovic has been admirable 
throughout. He explained the accident 
with a skill that was really astonishing in 
a person of his class. And not one hu- 
man being in the large audience had the 
shadow of a suspicion. But the fellow is 
too sharp for me. I do not want him 
about me. My turn came ; I rose and 
lifting my hand, swore to tell the truth. 
1 was totally unprepared for the sudden 
emotion that swept over me; my hand 
seemed made of lead. In returning to my 
place I felt a fearful oppression, and 
found that my pulse was down to forty. 
To think of the misfortunes which a mo- 
ment of passion may cause. For a year I 
intend to write these words daily in my 
diary : “ Never yield to my first impulse.'"' ’ 

'‘And,” continued Mascarot, “I hear 
from the people who examined these 
books, that these words headed every 
page of these journals.” 

This was at least the tenth time that 
Mascarot had pushed forward ** these peo- 
ple ” to whom he pretended to be in sub- 
jection, and still the count asked no 
questions. He did not say “ Who are 
these people?” This reticence was extra- 
ordinary, not to say alarming. 

The count rose, and walked with ap- 
parent difficulty up and down the room. 
It seemed as if he hoped in this way to 
collect his ideas — perhaps, however, it 
was to prevent his visitor from watching 
the variations of his face. 


“Is this all?” he asked, suddenh^ 

“ Yes sir, all.” 

“ Then do yon know what an impartial 
judge would say? ” 

" I think so — ” 

“He would say,” interrupted the count, 
“that a man in full possession of his 
senses would never have written such 
things. There are certain matters that 
one tries to forget, which one does not 
even whisper to his pillow, and it is hardly 
to be believed that such would be put 
down in black and white on a paper, that 
migiit be stolen or lost, or fall into the 
hands of indiscreet heirs. It is impossible 
that a sensible man, guilty of a false oath 
in a court of justice — that is to sa}'^, of a 
crime which would send him to the gal- 
leys — should amuse himself in scribbling 
after this fashion, and thus analyze every 
sensation.” 

Mascarot looked compassionately at him. 

“ My opinion, sir, is that you are wrong 
in trying to lind this a way out of your 
difficulties. Your theory is not tenable — 
no lawj^er would sanction it. If the other 
thirty odd volumes of Monsieur de Clin- 
chan's journal should be produced in court, 
it is more than probable that many other 
enormities quite as surprising would be 
found in them.” 

The count reflected for a moment, but 
his countenance indicated no anxiety. He 
appeared to have come to some decision, 
and to pursue this discussion merely to 
gain time. 

“Very well, then,” he said, “I relin- 
quish this theory. But who will tell me 
that these papers are not forged? Hand- 
writings are easily imitated, as must be 
admitted in these days, when even the 
bank has occasional difficulty in separa - 
ing counterfeit notes from their own. 
That is easily settled by the fact of cer- 
tain leaves being missing from the baron's 
books.” 

“ But that proves nothing.” 

“I beg your pardon, it proves every- 
thing. Let me convince you that this 
new defense will cost you ijs little as the 
other. Of course, I know as well as you 
that the Baron de Clinchan will say pre- 
cisely what you dictate.” 

“ Go on. sir.” 

“ Suppose that the torn-out leaves should 
accurately fit into the volume. Would 
not that evidence be satisfactory?” 

The count smiled an ironical smile, as if 
he held in reserve a powerful argument. 

“ This is really your opinion?” he said. 

“ Indeed it is.” 

“ Then nothing is left to me but a con- 
fession, I suppose. Very well, Montlouis 
was killed by me, precisely as Clinchan 
has said. And Clinchan, although fright- 
fully imprudent, is a man of honor and of 
heart. He knew that certain things said 
by Montlouis drove me mad with pass. on, 

I and these reasons he did not write.” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


2 ^ 


Mascarot gave a relieved sigh, although 
in truth he was no little disturbed by the 
easy, indifferent tone of the count. 

“But,” continued Monsieur de Mussidan, 
“ these people are fools, when they think 
of doing me any harm by bringing before 
the world once more this very great mis- 
fortune.” 

As he spoke he took from the shelves a 
large volume^ opened it, and placed it be- 
fore Mascarot saying: “this is the Code 
of Criminal Law. Bead it. ^The crimi- 
nal action, and the civil action resulting 
therefrom, for a crime punishable by death, 
or imprisonment for life, shall be barred 
after the lapse of ten years.’ ” 

The count evidently expected that this 
brief article would crush to the earth the 
bland personage seated before him. Not 
in the least ! 

Far from being surprised, Mascarot 
smiled more bla .dly than ever. 

“ Ah ! ” he answered “ I, too, know 
something of law. The very first day that 
I was approached on this matter, I turned 
to the page now open before you, and read 
these words aloud.” 

“ Very well, and what did they say?” 

“Words to this efiect: that they knew 
all this, but they wished me to come to 
you and demand half of your fortune, 
which you would gladly give.” 

The impudent assurance of the agent’s 
tone and manner is indescribable, and the 
count realized fully that the wretches, 
whomsoever they might be’, had discov- 
ered some infallible means of utilizing 
this crime of his far-away youth. But 
convinced as he was of this dread cer- 
tainty, and overwhelmed by frightful anx- 
iety, he was still sufliciently master of 
hims If not to show any emotion. 

“ No,” he said, “ the half of my fortune 
does not slip through my fingers quite as 
easily as you imagine. The pretensions of 
your clients will be somewhat more mod- 
est, I trust, particularly as these scraps 
of paper stolen from my friend are really 
absolutely worthless.” 

“ Worthless, do you say? ” 

“ Certainly, for it seems to me that 
on this point the law is sufliciently pre- 
cise.” 

Mascarot adjusted his spectacles, which 
was a clear indication that he was about 
to say something very serious. 

“ You are right, sir,” he said slowly. 
“No one thinks of reaching you by any 
judiciary process. You cannot be pun- 
ished in any way, for this murder which 
was committed twenty-three years ago.” 

“Then — ” 

“ Pardon me. The creatures for whom 
I act and for whom I blush, have arranged 
a little combination which will be, I fancy, 
as disagre/ ible to you, not to say disas- 
trous, as to your friend the baron.” 

“And might I ask you to explain this 
extremely — 1 am at loss for a word — in- 


genious, I will say — ingenious combina- 
tion? ” 

“Certainly : it is to give you this expla- 
nation that i came here to-duy.” 

He hesitated, seeking for the proper 
phraseolog}’’ in which to lay bare his planSy 
and then continued : 

“ Let us first admit that you reject the- 
request with which I came to you.” 

“Is that what you call a request? ” 

“ Pshaw ! what difierence does the word 
make ? I consider myself repulsed by you. 
What happens now? To-morrow, my cli- 
ents, I am ashamed to call them thus, will 
proceed to print in a morning paper tho 
unfortunate story of the Baron de Clin- 
chan, with the simple title, ^ The History 
of a Day’s Hunt.’ Of course, only the in- 
itials will appear, but they will leave no 
room for any mistake on the part of tho 
reader.” 

“You forget, sir, that there are courts, 
and that in a case of defamation of char- 
acter proof is not admitted.” 

The agent shrugged his shoulders. “Oh I 
my people forget nothing, and it is in fact 
upon this very point which you designate 
that their plan is based. For the reason 
you mention they introduce a fifth person- 
age, one of themselves, an accomplice, 
whom they name in all their letters. This 
man, the day after the appearance of the 
article, makes a complaint against the jour- 
nal that has published it. He makes a 
great commotion, and insists on proving 
in a court of justice that he was not even 
present at this hunting party.” 

“And then? ” 

“ Then, sir, this man insists that the 
journal shall retract its injurious state- 
ments, and summon as witnesses before a 
magistrate, yourself first, then the Baron 
de Clinchan, and finally Ludovic. As he 
claims damages, he employs a lawyer, 
who is also one of his associates and be- 
hind the scenes. This lawyer will speak, 
of course something to this effect. ‘ That 
Monsieur de Mussidan is an assassin i& 
clear; that the Baron de Clinchan is a 
perjured witness we know, for we have it 
in his own handwn-iting. Ludovic has also 
been suborned, but my client, an honor- 
able man, must by no means be confounded 
with these,’ etc., etc. Have I explained 
myself clearly?” 

“Alas, yes! so clearly and with so piti- 
less a logic that they should all escape 
such machinations seems hopeless.” 

At one glance the count saw the future. 
He saw the disgraceful notoriety, the ap- 
palling notoriety of the suit. He saw* the 
whole country gloating over the details. 
And yet such wras his character, and so 
impatient was he of all constraint, that he 
was more desperate than crushed. He 
knew life and men. He knew that the 
wretches who held him with their knives 
at his throat demanding his money or his 
life, dreaded, and had reason to dread the 


I 



30 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


sharp eyes, of the law. He said to him- 
self that he would refuse to listen to them, 
and that they would not probably dare to 
accomplish their threats. 

If the question only concerned himself, 
he would assuredly have run all risks, and 
resisted to the bitter end ; and as a begin- 
ning would have given himself the deli- 
cious satisfaction of beating the impudent 
scoundrel before him within an inch of 
his life. 

But how could he expose to the perils of 
a refusal his devoted friend Clinchan, who 
had been so compromised already for him. 
Clinchan was timid and nervous by na- 
ture, and would not long survive such an 
exposure. 

All these thoughts and many others 
surged through his mind while he paced 
up and down his library. He was unde- 
cided whether to submit to these insults, 
or to throw the agent out of the window. 

His nervous, excited air, and an occa- 
sional exclamation betrayed the excite- 
ment of this man, who, when he lost his 
temper, thought as little, so Mascarot be- 
lieved, of shooting a fellow creature as a 
rabbit; and yet the man sat, uncertain as 
he was whether he should have to leave 
the room by the window or the door, turn- 
ing his thumbs with a most unconcerned 
aspect. 

Finally, the count, worn out with his 
emotion, decided on the side of prudence. 

He stopped abruptly in front of the 
agent, and without taking any pains to 
dissimulate his profound contempt, said, 
in a stern voice : 

‘‘Let us end this! For how much will 
you sell these papers?” 

Mascarot had the contrite expression of 
an honest man sorely misunderstood. 

“Oh, sir,” he began: “you cannot be- 
lieve me capable — ” 

Monsieur de Mussidan shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“ At least,” he said, “ credit me with as 
much intelligence as you yourself have. 
What amount do you desire? ” 

For the first time the agent seemed 
somewhat embarrassed, and hesitated. 

“ It is not money that we want,” he said, 
at last. 

“Hot money!” replied the count, in 
astonishment. 

“ But a thing which is nothing to you, 
and of the greatest possible importance to 
those who send me. I am charged to tell 
you that you may rest in peace if you will 
consent to break off the projected marriage 
between mademoiselle, your daughter, and 
Monsieur de Breulh-Faverlay. The pages 
from the baron’s journal will be handed to 
you the day of mademoiselle’s marriage 
with any other person whom you may 
select.” 

This demand, so extraordinary and so 
unexpected, was so far from the count’s ex- 
pectations, that he stood utterly petrified. 


“ But this is absolute madness,” he mur- 
mured. 

“It is sincere, nevertheless,” was the 
reply. 

Suddenly the count started — an idea 
had struck him. 

“ Do you incend,” he said, “ as your 
next step, to impose on me a son-in-law 
of your own choosing? ” 

Mascarot was the picture of unsullied 
honesty. 

“I have knowledge enough of charac- 
ter,” he answered, “to feel certain that, 
even to save yourself, you would never 
consent to sacrifice your daughter.” 

“But — ” 

“ You are mistaken, sir, in regard to 
the motives of my clients. Tliey threaten 
you, it is true, but it is really M. de Breulh 
whom they wish to reach. They have 
sworn he shall never marry a girl with a 
dowry of a million.” 

So great was the count’s amazement that 
he unwittingly gave an entirely different 
aspect to this interview. 

He resisted still, but calmly, and an- 
swered his own objections rather than 
those of his strange visitor. “ Monsieur 
de Breulh has my word,” he said; but it 
is easy enough to find some excuse. The 
countess is in favor of the marriage ; she 
talks of it constantly, and it is from her 
that the greatest obstacles will arise.” 

The agent thought it wiser not to an- 
swer this objection. 

“ Then,” continued the count, “ my 
daughter will probably feel regret at this 
rupture.” 

Thanks to Florestan, Mascarot knew how 
much importance to attach to this. 

“ Oh! ” he said, “ Mademoiselle Sabine, 
with her age, position, and education, is not 
likely to have any decided predilection.” 

For fifteen minutes longer the count de- 
bated. To yield to the mandates of these 
ruffians was to him the sorest of humilia- 
tions. But he knew himself to be at the 
mercy of these people, and yielded. “ So 
be it,” he said, finally; ‘"my daughter 
shall not marry Monsieur de Breulh.” 

Mascarot had triumphed, but his coun- 
tenance did not change. He went out of 
the room slowly, bowing rather more pro- 
foundly than when he entered ; but as he 
descended the stairs he rubbed his hands 
gayly. “ If Hortebise has been as suc- 
cessful as I,” he murmured, "‘ things will 
go smoothly for us.” 


CHAPTER y. 

To be admitted to the honor of a private 
interview with the Countess de Mussidan, 
Dr. Hortebise had no need of any of the 
expedients adopted by his friend Mascarot 
to reach the count. As soon as he pre- 
sented himself, that is five minutes after 
the valiant agent went to the hotel, the 
two footmen who yawned in the vestibule 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


31 


received him as the honored guest of the 
house. 

Nevertheless, the tone in which they 
said, with a look at each other, ‘‘Yes, 
madame receives,” would have given a 
visitor less initiated in the way of the 
house, something to think of, for in fact 
it was a very rare occurrence for the 
countess to be at home. No one of the 
lady's friends, however, desirous of seeing 
her, would have knocked at her door, for 
of what use would it have been? They 
-would have expected to find her at the Ex- 
position, at the races, at the academy, at a 
restaurant — theatre or shop ; at a rehear- 
sal < f the new opera, in the studio of some 
famous artist, with a professor having a 
n3wly discovered tenora — anywhere and 
everywhere, in short, save in her own 
home. 

Hers was one of those restless natures 
incapable of repose, excitable to a degree, 
mad for novelty and pleasure. 'Her hus- 
band, her daughter, and her home, were of 
the smallest importance in her eyes, and 
to them she rarely gave a thought. She 
had so many cares, poor thing! She 
begged for the poor; she presided over a 
Magdalen society; she was one of the 
managers of a hospital for old men. Added 
to this, her extravagance was absolutely 
without parallel. She had not the small- 
est notion of the value of money. Hand- 
fuls of gold pieces slipped through her 
fingers like handfuls of snow. What did 
she do with them? This neither she nor 
any one else knew. The world held her 
to blame for the painful relations between 
herself and her husband. Although mar- 
ried and in a nominal home, home the 
count had not. It was said, that for years 
he had each day and each meal waited for 
his wife — she came, or failed to come, just 
as the whim seized her. 

Worn out by constant warfare he finally 
adopted the habit of dining at his club, 
and lived an entirely bachelor life. All 
this the doctor knew, as well as many 
other things, and it was with the most en- 
tire self-possession that he followed the 
footman, whose duty it was to open the 
door of the salon. This room was really 
superb : a large apartment with a high 
and exquisitely decorated ceiling, and fur- 
nished with extreme richness ; and yet it 
was cold and dreary. As soon as one 
crossed the threshold, it was easy to see 
that the room was not reallj’’ lived in. 
On a lounge near the fire half reclined the 
Countess de Mussidan. On the appearance 
of the doctor she dropped her book, and 
uttered an exclamation of pleasure. 

“ Ah ! this is really very kind, doctor, to 
come and see me.” As she said this, she 
made a sign to a servant to bring forward 
an arm-chair. Tall and slender, the 
countess at forty-five had the figure of a 
young girl. Her hair was still abundant, 
and thanks to its light color, it was not 


easy to distinguish the silvery threads 
which were scattered through it, and 
which, at a distance, looked like a slight 
dash of powder. 

About herself and her laces always lin- 
gered a most delicious and refined per- 
fume; and her eyes, of the palest blue, 
expressed intense pride and cold disdain. 

“It is only you, doctor,” she added, 
“ Avho knows how to time your visits. I 
am dying of ennui ; I am wearied to death 
of books ; no matter what I read I find 
that I have read it before in one form or 
another. To arrive at so apropos a mo- 
ment, you must really have signed a com- 
pact with chance. 

The physician had indeed signed a com- 
pact, only the name of his Chance was 
Mascarot. 

“ I receive so little,” continued Madame 
de Mussidan, “ that no one nowadays con- 
descends to visit me. I must really take 
one day in the week for my friends. As it 
is, -whenever I stay at home, the solitude 
and loneliness is something frightful. For 
two mortal hours I have been in this room. 
I have been taking care of the count.” 

This assertion was so singular and so un- 
called for that it would have surprised even 
a better informed man. 

But the doctor smiled pleasantly, and 
said, “ Really I” in just the proper tone. 

“ Yes,” continued the countess, “ Mon- 
sieur de Mussidan slipped the day before 
yesterday, on the stairs, and really hurt 
himself severely. Our physician says it 
is nothing ; but I never believe anything 
that physicians say.” 

“ I know that by experience, madame.” 

“ Oh, as to that, my dear doctor, you are 
quite diff*erent. I assure you that in other 
days I did pin my faith on you. Only I 
must admit, that after your conversion to 
homeopathy I was afraid of you.” 

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. 

“ That school is "as good as another,” he 
said. 

“ You think so? ” 

“ I am sure of it.” 

Madame de Mussidan smiled. 

“lam strongly tempted,” she said, “ now 
that you are here, to ask your advice.” 

“You are not indisposed, madame, I 
hope? ” 

“I! no, indeed! Heaven be praised. I 
am spared that last blow. But I am really 
very anxious in regard to my daughter’s 
health.” 

“ Ah ! ” This maternal anxiety was the 
pendant to the conjugal devotion which 
she had claimed, and the doctor’s “Ah!” 
was quite as good as his “ Really.” 

“ Yes, indeed. For a month, doctor, I 
have scarcely seen Sabine, I have been so 
much occupied. Yesterday I met her, and 
I was really shocked at the change in 
her.” 

‘‘ Did you ask her if she was suffering 
in any way ? ” 


I 


32 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


“ Certainly, and she said no— and that 
she was perfectly well.” 

‘‘May she not have had some little 
annoyance? ” 

* “ She? Do you not know she is one of 
the most beloved and happiest girls in 
Paris. But I should like you to see her, 
nevertheless.” 

The lady rang ; a servant appeared. 

“Lubin,”said the countess, ask Made- 
moiselle Sabine if she will come down 
here.” 

“Mademoiselle Sabine has gone out.” 

“ Indeed, and how long ago? ” 

“ She went out about three.” 

“ And who was with her? ” 

“ Her maid. Mademoiselle Modeste.” 

“ Did mademoiselle say where she was 
going?” 

“No, madame.” 

“ Very well, that is all.” 

The imperturable doctor was no little 
astonished. What ! Sabine de Mussidan, 
a girl of eighteen, free to come and go in 
this way ! She had gone out, it was clear, 
without telling any one whither she was 
going or when she would return, and her 
mother found nothing extraordinary in 
it.” 

“ It is really very annoying,” said the 
countess, “very annoying! However, let 
us hope that her slight indisposition, in re- 
gard to which I wished to consult you, will 
not prevent the marriage from taking 
place.” 

Hortebise was enchanted. Here was the 
very subject broached to which he had 
feared he must lead with such infinite 
trouble. 

“Is mademoiselle to be married then?” 
he asked with an air of respectful inter- 
est. 

Madame de Mussidan placed a finger on 
her lips. “Hush!” she said, “it is a 
very great secret, and nothing is abso- 
lutely settled. But you are a physician, 
that it to say, a father confessor by pro- 
fession, and I feel that I can trust you. It 
is more than probable that before "the end 
of the year Sabine will be Madame de 
Breulh-Faverlay .” 

It is certain that Hortebise was less au- 
dacious than Mascarot, before whose pro- 
jects the doctor often turned pale and 
recoiled. But once having given his con- 
sent, he could be thoroughly relied on, 
and he had no further compunctions or 
hesitations. 

“I must acknowledge, madame, that I 
have heard of this before,” he answered, 
slowly. 

“Indeed; and who has been so kind?” 

“Many people. And here, let me say 
that it was not an accident that brought 
me this morning, it was this very mar- 
riage.” 

Madame de Mussidan liked Dr. Horte- 
bise, and enjoyed his clever conversation 
and all the gossip with w'hich he was so 


liberally provided. She received him also 
in a familiar way, and at times when no 
one else would have been admitted ; but 
that he should take upon himself to med- 
dle in the affairs of her daughter and her 
own was intolerable. 

“ Keally, sir,” she said coldly, “it is a 
very great honor that you are conferring ’ 
upon the count and me, to thus interest 
yourself in this marriage.” 

This simple sentence was uttered in a 
tone and with a glance that would have 
stung the least sensitive person like the 
sharp lash of a whip. But Dr. Hortebise 
came there for other purposes than to lose 
his temper. He came to say certain things 
in a certain way. He had prepared his 
part in advance, carefully studying it, and 
he was not to be turned from his purpose 
by anything the countess might say. He 
was superior to Mascarot, who did not as 
well understand how to say what he wished 
without wounding his hearer’s susceptibili- 
ties. This superiority Hortebise fully rec- 
ognized ; and if he envied it he was by no 
means jealous of it. 

Hortebise therefore paid no attention ta 
the lady’s affront. 

“Believe me, madame,” he answered, 
“ that when I accepted the mission with 
which I came, I did so feeling only the 
most respectful devotion towards you and 
yours.” 

“Ah!” said the countess, half closing 
her eyes, and speaking in an impertinent, 
supercilious tone, ‘‘ah! you are really 
very kind ! ” 

“Yes, madame, and I am sure, after 
you have heard all I have to say, that you: 
will have still greater reasons to be of that 
opinion ! ” 

He said this in such a singular tone that 
Madame de Mussidan started as if she had 
received a shock from an electric battery. 

“ For twenty-five years,” continued the 
doctor, “I have been the constant recip- 
ient of family secrets — and to most hor- 
rible ones, it has been my fate to listen — 
often and often I have been in most delicate 
and difficult positions, but never in my 
whole life have I been so embarrassed as 
at this moment.” 

“ You alarm me,” said the countess, for- 
getting to be impertinent. 

“ If madame, I come to you from a mad- 
man, as I sincerely hope is the case, I 
shall make to you the most humble apol- 
ogies. If, oil the contrary, that which he 
asserts is true — if he has in his possession 
the absolute proofs ” 

“ Then, doctor? ” 

Then, madame, I can only say, make 
use of me — for there is one man who 
will serve you unto death, and I am that 
man.” 

The countess uttered a laugh that was 
as false as the tears shed by a new-made 
heir. 

“Really,” she said, “your funereal as- 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


33 


pect and solemn tones make me die — with 
laughing.’’ 

The doctor reflected. 

“ She laughs too loud and too soon. 
Mascarot is right.” 

Then he replied : • 

“ I trust, madame, that I may laugh, too, 
at my own chimerical fears. But what- 
ever happens, permit me to remind you of 
what you said a few moments since : ‘ A 
physician is a father confessor.’ That is 
true, madame ; like the priest, the physi- 
cian hears secrets only to forget them. 
He also must learn to comfort and con- 
sole, with more ability, too, than the 
priest, as his profession brings him more 
directly in contact with the passions and 
temptations of life. He understands and 
excuses ” 

And doctor, you must not forget to 
add,” interrupted the countess, that like 
the priest, he preaches too.” 

As she launched this arrow, her counte- 
nance assumed a comical expression, but 
it elicited no smile from Hortebise, who 
became momentarily more and more 
solemn. 

I may be absurd,” he said : “ I had 
better be that than re-open some painful 
wound which you supposed closed for- 
ever.” 

‘‘ Go on, doctor, without fear.” 

“Then, madame, I will begin by asking 
if you retain any recollection of a young 
man in your own circle, who in the early 
years of your marriage, enjoyed in Paris 
a certain social reputation. I speak of the 
Marquis de Croisenois.” 

Madame had thrown herself back in her 
low chair, her eyes riveted upon the ceil- 
ing, and her brow contracted, as if vainly 
endeavoring to recall the name. 

“ The Marquis de Croisenois,” she mur- 
mured. “ It seems to me Wait a mo- 

ment. No, doctor, I really do not remem- 
ber any such person.” 

Her hearer thought it his duty to quicken 
this r^'bellious memory. “ The Croise- 
nois,’* he said, “ of whom I speak, was 
named George ; he had a brother Henry, 
whom you certainly know, for I saw him, 
this winter, dancing at a ball at the Due de 
Laumense, with your daughter.” 

“ Ah. yes 1 You are right. I do recall 
the name now.” 

The lady was entirely indifferent and 
self-possessed. 

“ Then, perhaps you also remember that 
about twenty-three years ago George de 
Croisenois disappeared suddenly. This 
disappearance made a terrible commotion 
at the time — it was the event of the sea- 
son ” 

“Yes?” murmured the countess, inter- 
rogatively.” 

“ The last time that George was seen 
was at the Cafe de Paris. He dined there 
with some friends. At nine o'clock he 
rose to leave ; one of his friends offered to 


accompany him, but he refused. He was 
asked if they would see him later ; he an- 
swered, perhaps so, at the opera, ‘ but 
that they must not count upon him.’ It 
was, therefore, supposed that he was go- 
ing to some rendezvous.” 

“ Ah ! his friends thought that? ” 

“Yes, on account of his dress, which 
was more careful than usual, although he 
was always an exquisite, and a lion, as 
was the phrase in those days. George de 
Croisenois went out alone, and was never 
seen again.” 

“Never again,” added the countess, a 
little too gayly, perhaps. 

, The doctor was unmoved. “Never 
again,” he repeated. “ The first two or 
three days his friends thought it extraor- 
dinary; at the end of a week they grew 
anxious.” 

“ How many more details? ” 

“They are all true, madame. I knew them 
all at the time, but had forgotten them, 
and they were only this morning brought 
back to my mind. They are to be found, 
with many others, in the report of the legal 
legal inquiry instituted — for one took 
place — most minute in its proceedings. 
The friends of De Croisenois had begun a 
search, but as it was utterly abortive, they 
called in the assistance of the police. The 
most skilful detectives were put on the 
track. The first idea was that of suicide. 
George might have gone to some woods in 
the neighborhood of Paris and there blown 
out his brains. The state of his affairs 
was, however, thoroughly prosperous, his 
fortune was ample, his evident happiness 
and ease of mind demonstrated the folly 
of this supposition. Then, the idea of a 
murder having been committed gained 
ground, and the investigations were man- 
aged on the basis of this opinion. But 
nothing was discovered — nothing ! ” 

The countess stified a yawn of doubtful 
sincerity, and repeated, like an echo : 
“ Nothing! ” 

“The police were as disconcerted as 
possible, when three months later a friend 
of George’s received a letter from him.” 

“ Ahf he was not dead then?” 

The physician made a note of the air and 
tone of the countess, to analyze them at 
his leisure. 

“Who knows?” he answered. “This 
letter was dated Cairo. George said, 
that weary of life in Paris, he was about 
to explore the interior of Africa, and that 
no anxiety need be felt in regard to him. 
This letter, as you must understand, was 
more than suspicious. A man does not 
start off on such an expedition without a 
penny ; and it was proved that the marquis 
had not about him more than a thousand 
francs, of which more than half was the 
Portuguese gold pieces won at whist before 
dinner. The letter was, therefore, regard- 
ed as a ruse. But the most renowned ex- 
perts pronounced the writing that of Crois- 


34 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


enois. Two agents were at once dispatched 
to Cairo, but neither at Cairo nor along 
the route had any one seen anything of the 
missing man — not a trace, not a clew.” 
He spoke slowly, watching the countess, 
but her face was impassible. 

‘‘ What ! ” she said, when he had fin- 
ished, “ is there nothing more? ” 

Hortebise met the eyes of madame before 
he answered ; then, and not until then, he 
answered. 

A man, madame, came yesterday morn- 
ing to see me ; this man pretends that you 
can tell what became of George de Croise- 
nois.” 

A strong man would never have shown 
the extraordinary powers of resistance 
evinced by this feeble woman. However 
hardened a man may be, it is rarely that 
he does not show something of the agony 
he is undergoing, when, under similar cir- 
cumstances, a woman would have turned 
a smiling face toward her torturer. On 
the battle-field of dissimulation, a young 
girl would conquer the most acute of di- 
plomats, had he the cunning of Fouche 
and the genius of Talleyrand. When, 
crushed by the weight of evidence, a man 
would fali upon his knees, a woman holds 
her head still higher, and fights on to the 
bitter end. God said to Cain: ‘‘What 
hast thou done with thy brother Abel?” 
and Cain is overwhelmed. A woman, on 
the contrary, would have denied and ar- 
gued. At the mere name of Montlouis the 
count had turned pale, and tottered as if 
struck by a heavy mallet. At this formal 
accusation of Hortebise, the countess 
uttered a peal of laughter, clear, fresh, and 
natural, and attempted an answer, but was 
again and again prevented by her amuse- 
ment. 

“Oh, doctor!” she said at last, “your 
little tale is most interesting ; but I really 
think it is a somnambulist whom you 
should consult, rather than I, in regard to 
the fate of George de Croisenois.” 

But the doctor played his part with 
equal readiness, and far from being either 
surprised or disconcerted at the hilarity of 
the countess, he drew a long breath, as if 
relieved from a heavy burden, and said, 
with a most delighted air: “Heaven be 
praised ! I have been deceived.” 

He pronounced these words so naturally, 
with so honest an intonation, that the 
countess was thoroughly deceived. 

“But,” she said, “you will, of course, 
tell me who the person is who accuses me 
of such wonderful knowledge? ” 

“ Pshaw ! ” answered Hortebise, “ what 
is the good? He made a fool of me, and 
made me run the risk of displeasing you, 
madame, and that is quite enough. To- 
morrow, when he presents himself, my 
servant will receive and dismiss him. But, 
if I should act in obedience to my inclina- 
tions, I should enter a complaint ” 

“What are you thinking of?” inter- 


rupted Madame de Mussidan. “Enter a 
complaint? That would make at once a 
piece of utter wonders into an important 
matter. Tell me the name of your myste- 
rious personage. Do I know him? ” 

“No, madame. That is impossible; he 
is so far beneath you. His name will teach 
you nothing. He is a man whom I once 
assisted; who is, if I do not mistake, a 
lawyer’s clerk, and who is called Father 
Tantaine.” 

“ Tantaine? ” 

“ A mere nickname, of course. The old 
fellow is wretchedly poor, a cynic, and a 
philosopher, with considerable intelli- 
gence; and it is precisely this last fact 
that troubles me. I said to myself that 
he was sent by some one more powerful 
than himself ; but ” 

The countess thought the doctor was 
too easily reassured. She interrupted him 
here. 

“ But, Dr. Hortebise,” she insisted, 
“ you spoke to me of menaces, of proofs, 
of some mysterious power ” 

“ Certainly, madame ; I repeated Father 
Tantaine’s words, simply. The old fool 
said to me : ‘ Madame de Mussidan knows 

the fate of the mar<]^uis. This is clearly 
shown by letters that she has received 
from him as well as from the Due de 
Champdoce.’ ” 

This time the countess was stung to the 
quick. She started up as if moved by a 
spring; her lips quivering, deadly pale, 
and eyes dilated with horror. 

‘•My letters!” she exclaimed, in a 
hoarse voice. 

A stranger would have pitied Hortebise, 
so utterly overwhelmed was he by the 
consternation he had caused. 

“ Your letters, madame,”. he answered, 
with evident hesitation, “ this rascal 
Laquine pretends to have in his posses- 
sion ” 

Madame uttered a shriek like the cry of 
a lioness bereft of her young, and turning 
suddenly away, without further thought 
of Hortebise, she rushed from the room. 
Her rapid footfall was heard on the stairs, 
and the frou-frou of her siik skirts against 
the railing. Left to his own devices the 
doctor rose. 

“Look!” he murmured, with a cynical 
smile. ‘‘ Look, and you will see that the 
birds are flown.” 

He went to one of the windows, and 
mechanically tapped with his finger-tips 
on the glass. 

“It is said,” he thought; half aloud, 
“ that Mascarot is never mistaken. It is 
impossible not to admire his infernal pene- 
tration, his implacab e logic. From the 
most trivial circumstances he reasons out 
an entire career, like the savant who, from 
the leaf blown to his feet by the autumnal 
gale, says on what trej it has grown, and 
describes its flower and its fruit. Ah ! if 
he had but applied to some noble end his 


THE 8LAVES OF PABIS. 


35 


Tvonderful ability, his extraordinary activ- 
ity, his audacity, which no rebuffs can dis- 
concert ! ” 

His brow grew dark, and he began to 
pace the room, pursuing the current of his 
thoughts.” 

“But no,” he continued, “ at this mo- 
ment he is above stairs occupied in mar- 
tyrizing De Mussidan, while I in this room 
torture the countess. What a trade we 
have adopted ! And for twenty-five years 
this has gone on! Oh! there are days 
when I feel that I have paid dearly for my 
apparently easy life. Without counting 
” Here he fingered his medallion list- 
lessly, and added : “ without counting that 
the hour will come when we shall find our 
masters And then the end!” 

He stopped, and the countess reappeared. 

Her hair had half escaped from its con- 
finement, she was visibly trembling, her 
eyes were fixed and staring, her whole 
aspect showed most clearly her terror and 
the disorder of her soul. 

“ I have been robbed !” she said, from 
the threshold. 

So great was her trouble that she spoke 
in a loud voice, forgetting that the door 
was open, and that the footman in the ves- 
tibule could hear her. 

Fortunately the doctor did not also lose 
his head, and it was with the ease of a 
professional actor repairing the forgetful- 
ness of a subordinate that he went to close 
the door. 

“ What has been stolen?” he asked. 

“My letters — I cannot find them.” 

She fell rather than seated herself in the 
causeuse^ j'nd in an abrupt, quick voice 
continued : 

“And yet these letters were in an iron 
casket, fastened by a secret lock, and this 
casket was in the bottom of a deep drawer 
of which I have the key ; in fact, the key 
is always with me, night and day.” 

Hortebise had resumed his air of cour 
sternation. 

“Tantaine spoke the truth then?” he 
said. 

“He spoke the truth,” repeated the 
countess. “Yes,” she continued, “I am 
at this moment, the veriest slave to people 
whose names I do not know ; who are as 
much masters of my life as if they held a 
dagger at my throat ! ” 

She hid lier face in her hands, as if, 
through pride, she wished to conceal her 
despairing face. 

“Are these letters so overwhelming?” 
asked the doctor.” 

“They are false! and I am lost,” she 
answered. 

The do ' tor looked as though he were 
racking his brain to find a loophole of es- 
cape for the unfortunate woman before 
him. 

“ Ah ! ” continued the countess, “ I was 
guilty — I was foolish in those old days. I 
knew nothing of life — I hated, I sought 


vengeance. And all the weapons prepared 
for others are now turned against me. I 
dug a pit in which to precipitate my ene- 
mies, and I lie crushed and bruised at the 
bottom.” 

The worthy Hortebise took care to offer 
no interruption. The countess was in one 
of those moods of utter despair, when all 
that is in the depths of the soul rises to the 
surface like sea- weed during a tempest. 

“ I would far rather die ! ” she moaned. 
“ Yes, die, rather than see these letters in 
the hands of my husband. Poor Octave. 
Have I not occasioned him sufficient suffer- 
ing without this ? Ah ! I learned to know 
and appreciate him only too late. And 
now, Dr. Hortebise, it is an exposure of 
these letters with which I am threatened, 
is it not? These letters will be given to 
my husband if I do not consent — to 
what? It is money they want, of course, 
and how much?” 

The doctor made a faint and unheeded 
remonstrance by sign rather than by 
speech, and shook his head. 

“Not money?” exclaimed the countess. 
“ What then? Pray speak, and not torture 
me in this needless fashion.” 

When alone with Mascarot, Hortebise 
confessed that he frequently pitied his 
victims, in spite of the heaviness of his 
stakes ; but of this momentary compassion 
they were unaware ; he evinced no tender- 
ness, and went on without faltering to the 
bitter end. 

“ That which they exact from you, 
madame, he said, “ is a trifie, or a matter 
of importance, precisely as you decide to 
look upon it.” 

“ Speak, I have strength to hear ! ” 

“These fatal letters will be restored to 
you the day Mademoiselle Sabine marries 
Henri de Croisenois, brother of George.” 

Madame de Mussidan’s astonishment 
was so great that she stood motionless, as 
if struck by lightning. 

“I have been commissioned to inform 
you,” continued the doctor, “ that all the 
delay necessary to modify your existing 
projects will be accorded to you. But 
pra}’^ be careful, for I am absolutely cer- 
tain that should your daughter marry any 
other person than the Marquis de Croise- 
nois, that very moment your letters would 
be delivered to your husband.” 

As he spoke, Hortebise, out of the corner 
of his eye, watched the effect produced, 
which far surpassed his expectations. 
The countess rose, so faint and dizzy that 
she was obliged to support herself with one 
hand on the chimney-piece. 

“ Then there is nothing more to be said,” 
she exclaimed. “ That which you ask of 
me is totally out of my power to grant. 
Perhaps it is better. I shall have no agony 
of suspense to bear. My fate is settled. 
Go, doctor, go and say to the wretch who 
stole my letters, that he can take them to 
the count.” 


36 


THE SLAVES OF FAB IS, 


The firm tone of the countess indicated 
so unalterable a determination that Horte- 
bise knew not what to think, 

“ It is true, then,” she continued, “ that 
there exist in this world scoundrels as 
cowardly and vile as the most odious as- 
sassins, who trade in the shame and sor- 
rows that they discover; who make a 
livelihood and money out of this business. 

I have heard of this before, but I would 
never believe it. I said to myself, that 
such an idea had its sole foundation in the 
unhealthy imagination of romance writers. 

I was mistaken, it seems. Nevertheless, 
let not these infamous creatures rejoice too 
swiftly. They will not profit from their 
villainy. There is one refuge left open to 
me where they will not seek to intrude — ” 
“Madame!” said the doctor, implor- 
ingly ; “ madame ! ” In> vain were his en- 
treaties ; she was beyond all possibility of 
heeding or even hearing his remonstran- 
ces. She continued, with rapidly increas- 
ing violence, increasing as she recapitu- 
lated all she has suffered : 

“ Do they think, these wretches, that I 
fear death? Ah! for years I have im- 
plored it as a crown of mercy from the 
God whom I have offended. I long for 
the rest of the grave! It surprises you, 
does it not, to hear me speak thus, I who 
have been so beautiful, so fiattered, and so 
caressed — I, Diane de Laurebourg, Coun- 
tess de Mussidan. And this is the world’s 
judgment ! At the hour of my greatest 
triumphs, perhaps when I was presiding 
at some fete given in my honor — when I 
was honored by my rivals — my soul often 
Cjuivered in the bitterest agony, and I 
wished that I could die then and there. 
Often and often my best friends wonder 
at my conduct; they ask if I am not a 
little mad. Mad ? Yes ; I am mad ! They 
do not know — these friends who are as- 
tonished at my feverish restlessness, at my 
days full of excitement — they do not 
know that I fiee from before the phantom 
who pursues me everywhere. They can- 
not gue?s that solitude terrifies me — that 
I dare not be alone — that I must have 
distraction at any cost. But I have 
learned by this time, that nothing can 
stifie the murmur of my own conscience ! ” 
She spoke like a woman who has noth- 
ing more to hope, whose final sacrifice is 
made. Her clear, ringing voice pervaded 
the whole salon, and Dr. Hortebise turned 
pale, as he heard in the vestibule the con- 
stant passing to and fro of the servants, 
busy with preparations for dinner. 

How have I been able to endure exist- 
ence?” continued the countess. “It was 
simply that through the mists of the dis- 
tant future I caught an occasional glimpse 
of the delusive light of hope. I went on, 
day after day, year after year, toward this 
light. I fell by the way-side ; but wounded 
and bleeding, I struggled on again. To- 
day, hbwever, all hope has vanished. 1 1 


see only thick darkness, and to-night, for 
the first time for years, Diane de Mussi- 
dan will sleep a calm and dreamless sleep ! ” 

The countess was in such a state of ex- 
citement that the doctor asked himself in 
terror how he should prevent this explo- 
sion, which he had not foreseen. These 
loud tones would certainly startle the ser- 
vants, who would summon the count him- 
self, who was at that very moment under 
the knife. 

What would happen in that case ? Why, 
simply that the entire plot would be dis- 
covered and all would be lost. Seeing that 
Madame de Mussidan was about to rush 
out of the room, that his words had no 
power to stop her, Hortebise summoned 
all his courage, and, snatching her by both 
wrists, he compelled her to take a seat al- 
most by force. 

“ In the name of Heaven, madame ! ” he 
whispered, “ in the name of your daughter, 
listen to me. Do not yield so weakly. 
Am I not here? Am I not ready to s-rve 
you? Am I not ready to act as interme- 
diary with the cowai ds who fill me with 
disgust? Count on me; on the devotion 
of a man who knows something of the 
world, and who is by no means devoid of 
heart. Cannot we two, dear madame, so 
combine our energies as to ward off the 
storm?” 

The doctor talked on for some time, in 
the most persuasive manner, now making 
as strenuous efforts to reassure the com- 
tesse, as he had previously made to startle 
and overwhelm her. Was he not a physi- 
cian, and did he not well understand, after 
a frightful operation, how to staunch the 
blood and soothe the poor, quivering flesh? 
He therefore soon had the satisfaction of 
seeing himself in a measure successful. 
Madame de Mussidan listened to tnis rapid 
flow of words, failing, however, to grasp 
their meaning, but they calmed her never- 
theless. She was now in that state of 
nervous prostration following so often on 
great excitement. In fifteen minutes’ time 
the doctor had succeeded in inducing her 
to look the situation fair in the face ; then 
he breathed freely once more, and wiped 
the beads of moisture from his brow, 
feeling that he had won the day. 

“ It is infamous!” cried the countess; 
“ absolutely infamous ! ” 

’ “ Precisely, madame; but that does not 
alter the facts. Answer one question, if 
you please. Have you any special objec- 
tion to Monsieur de Croisenois ! ” 

“None, whatever.” 

“ He is of good family, highly esteemed, 
well-bred, and well educated, handsome, 
and not more than thirty-four ; for, as you 
know, his brother was the elder by fifteen 
years. Why, then, is it not a suitable 
match? ” 

‘‘But ” 

“ To be sure he has been guilty of seve- 
I ral follies — but may that not be said of 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS, 


37 


«very young man? Robert insists that 
he is overwhelmed with debts. This is 
not true, however; but, even if it were, 
your daughter is rich enough for both. 
Besides, George de Croisenois left a con- 
siderable fortune — not far from two mil- 
lions, 1 should say. It is quite within the 
bounds of possibility, moreover, that some 
day Henri will enter into the enjoyment of 
his money.” 

Madame de Mussidan was too crushed 
by the scene which she had undergone to 
be able to utter readily the strong objec- 
tions which she desired to lay before the 
doctor. With a mo>t painful effort she 
•collected her confused ideas at last. 

All that you say is very well,” she an- 
swered, ‘‘ but the count has decided that 
Sabine must become the wife of Monsieur 
de Faverlay. I am not the mistress — ” 

‘‘ But if you choose ” 

The countess shook her head, Once,” 
she said sadly, I reigned mistress over 
Octave's heart. I was the controlling in- 
fluence of his life. He loved me then. 
Was I not foolish to be so insensible of his 
affection? I wore out a love that would 
have been lasting as life itself. I killed it 
utterly, and now ” 

She hesitated, as if embarrassed by what 
she wished to say, and then added, more 
slowly: 

And now we live as strangers. I have 
nothing to complain of; it is my own 
fault ; he is good and just.” 

But you can try.” 

‘‘That 1 will do, doctor; but Sabine — 
who can say that Sabine does not love M. 
de Breuhl?” 

“ Of course, madame, a mother has 
always so much influence with a daugh- 
ter.” 

The countess snatched the doctor’s hand 
with a quick movement. She grasped it 
so tightly that it pained him. 

“ Must I disclose to you,” she said, in a 
hoarse voice, “the entire depth of my 
misery? I am a stranger to my husband, 
while my daughter despises and hates 
me! ” 

Many persons think that it would be a 
very simple matter to divide life into two 
distinct parts; the first to be given to 
pleasure — to the gratification of all 
fancies; then, later, when time has in 
some degree tempered the violence of one’s 
passions, the latter half of their existence 
can be consecrated to repose and domestic 
joys. But that is a most mistaken idea. 
As a man’s youth has been, so will old age 
be — a reward or an expiation. The mag- 
istrate. the priest, and the physician — all 
those persons, in fact, who are received 
into the intimacy of family circles — 
know this. 

The Countess de Mussidan was one of 
those who expiated their past follies. But 
Dr. Hortebise had no time to follow out 
these reflections. 


The count might enter at any time, or a 
servant to announce dinner. He aban- 
doned, consequently, all attempt at inves- 
tigation for the present, and sought only to 
calm the countess, to demonstrate to her 
that she was terrified by shadows, that she 
could not be estranged from her husband, 
and that her daughter did not hate her. 

He was so insinuating and so persuasive, 
he laid before her so many great things 
that might result from her devotion, that 
finally a ray of hope entered into the des- 
olate heart of the poor woman. 

“ Oh! doctor,” she said, in a trembling 
voice, “ it is only in the hours of misfor- 
tune that we learn to know our true 
friends.” 

Like her husband, the countess had at 
last laid down her arms ; her resistance 
had been longer, but she fiinally surren- 
dered. 

She promised that she would begin the 
next day, and would do her best to break 
off the existing state of matters between 
her family and Monsieur Henri de Croise- 
nois. 

The doctor was well satisfied with his 
morning’s work. He told the lady that 
he would keep that wretch Tantaine quiet, 
and also that he would bring her intelli- 
gence from time to time of any steps 
taken by her adversaries. And having giv- 
en her all these assurances Hortebise with- 
drew, utterly worn out with this inter- 
view. which had been two hours in 
length. 

It was very cold, but the outdoor air 
seemed perfectly delicious to him; he 
drew it in in long breaths, with the happy 
consciousness of having well performed a 
disagreeable duty. He walked slowly up 
the street, turned into the Faubourg Saint 
Honore, and at last entered the cafe where 
he and his honorable partner had agreed to 
meet. Mascarot was there, seated in a 
corner before an untouched mutton chop, 
sheltered by a huge newspaper that he was 
too anxious to read. Mascarot was literally 
trembling with impatience. Had Horte- 
bise encountered some obstacle, unfore- 
seen but insurmountable, that impercepti- 
ble grain of sand that disarranges the 
most solid combinations? 

“ Well ! ” he said impatiently, as soon as 
the doctor appeared. 

“Victory! ” said Hortebise, gayly; but 
as he sank on a chair, he added : “ but it 
has been a terrible task.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

ANDRE’S STUDIO. 

After having taken leave of Mascarot, 
his present protector, it was with the un- 
steady step of a man overtaken by wine 
that Paul Violaine descended the stair- 
case. 

This sudden and unexpected gpod for- 
tune, which had fallen like a parmg-stone 


38 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS. 


on his head, had absolutely stunned him. 
In a moment, without any transition stage, 
he saw himself changed from a position 
so horrible — that, as he stood on a bridge, 
he looked on the Seine with a feverish 
longing — to a position where he received 
a salary of twelve thousand francs per 
annum. Mascarot certainly offered me,” 
he said to himself, “ a thousand francs per 
month — twelve thousand per annum — 
and had offered to pay the first month in 
advance.” It was certainly enough to 
bewilder a man — and Paul was utterly 
overwhelmed. He recapitulated to himself 
the various incidents of the day, — the old 
clerk appearing with the offer of a loan 
of five hundred francs. This old man, who 
knew the entire story of his life, and with- 
out any attempt at bargaining had offered 
him this situation. 

When he reached the street Paul was in 
no hurry to rush to the Hotel du Peron 
with his important news. Pose could 
wait, he said to himself. It was justifying 
the prognostics of Dr. Hortebise. 

After being gorged, as it were, with this 
sudden prosperity, he was seized with an 
irresistible longing for movement. He 
felt a mad desire to spend money, to have 
sympathy and companionship. But where 
should he go, for he had no friends to con- 
gratulate him on his success^ But, search- 
ing through the dim recesses of his mind, 
he remembered that, in the clays when 
Paris and poverty were new to him, that 
he had borrowed some money — only 
twenty francs — from a young man of his 
own age, named Andre, who was almost as 
poor as himself. He still had half of the 
five hundred francs lent him by the old 
clerk — some gold pieces rattled in his 
pocket — he could have the thousand francs 
as soon as he wanted them — was not this 
the time, then, to pay his debts, and as- 
sume vast importance for having done so? 

Unfortunately this young man lived a 
long distance off in the Rue de la Tour 
d’ Auvergne. The distance disconcerted 
Paul somewhat, and as he hesitated an 
empty carriage passed. He jumped in, gave 
the address to the coachman with all the 
air of a man to whom driving is no novelty. 
The carriage di*ove rapidly away, and 
Paul began to think of this generous cred- 
itor. This Andre, who was not a friend, 
hardly an acquaintance, Paul had met in a 
little establishment, the Cafe del’Eplnette, 
where he often went with Rose when on 
his first coming to Paris he had lived at 
Montmartre. 

The Cafe de PEpinette is frequented 
only by artists, painters, musicians, com- 
edians, and journalists, all great men in 
embryo, who dispute furiously, and drink 
enormous quantities of beer. A piano 
stands in the corner of the upper hall — a 
most ill-used instrument — whose tones 
are heard from morning until night. 

Andre, whose other name Paul did not 


know, was an artist, and had several 
strings to his bow. In the first place ha 
was an ornamental sculptor, that is to say, 
he executed by the day’s work or by the 
job,” those preposterous ornaments which 
builders have certainly a right to add to 
their houses, but which they are very 
much in the wrong in asking their tenants 
to pay for. This trade of ornamental 
sculpture is not altogether an agreeable 
one, for often it is necessary to work at 
the most dizzy height, on scaffoldings 
which vibrate at the slightest movement ; 
to trust oneself on narrow planks and slen- 
der ladders ; to be broiled in summer and 
frozen in winter ; to be exposed, in short, 
to all the inclemency of the weather. The 
only comfort is, that the trade is lucrative^ 
consequently Andre earned a very pretty 
subsistence with his wreaths and figures. 

Only for many years, all that he gained 
in this way he expended for colors and 
brushes, for he was also a painter, but 
only for his own pleasure and in obedience 
to his natural vocation. He had studied 
considerably under several masters, when, 
finally, a day came when he felt that he 
could stand alone. He therefore took an 
atelier, and from that moment his career 
began. Twice his pictures had been on 
exhibition; orders came, and purchasers 
found their way to his modest home. 

At the Cafe de PEpinette Andre was 
held in high esteem. The fellows whom 
he met there maintained that his talent 
was great, his originality wonderful, and 
that some fine day he would be famous. 

Paul had sat at the same table with him 
some twenty times, when one evening, 
sorely pressed for money, he asked him 
for the loan of twenty francs, promising 
to return them the next day. But the 
next day Paul and Rose were even poorer 
than before — their affairs hourly went 
from bad to worse ; then they moved and 
established themselves on the other side 
of the water. In short, for eight months 
Paul had not seen Andre. 

The cab drew up at the right number in 
the Rue de la Tour d’Auvergne. Paul 
threw two francs to the coachman, and en- 
tered the large and well kept court-yard. 
At the further end was an old woman"^, fat, 
fresh, and clean, wearing a white cap with 
broad ruffles, which shook, as she rubbed 
with considerable vigor the already well 
polished brass handles on the door. Of 
course this was the concierge. 

Monsieur Andre? ” asked Paul. 

‘‘ He is at home,” answered the old wo- 
man, with extraordinary volubility ; and 
I may say, without being any more indis- 
creet than I ought, that it is a vei y won- 
derful thing to catch Monsieur Andre here. 
He is always out, for you see he has not 
his equal for hard work.” 

“ But, madame, — ” 

‘‘ And, then he is so settled down and so 
sensible,” continued the old woman, and 


THE SLAVE 8 OF FABIS 




so economical ! I do not believe that he 
has one penny of debts in the world. I 
have seen him but just once when he had 
drank too much. And hardly an acquaint- 
ance — not one, except one young lady 
who, for a month, I have tried to see, but 
she always wears a veil. But that, of 
course, is none of my business. She is 
very nice, she has her maid with her al- 
ways, and some day — ” 

‘‘Zounds!” cried Paul, impatiently, 
“ you tell me where to find Monsieur 
Andre ! ” 

That violent interruption seemed to 
shock the concierge. 

“Fourth floor, door at the right,” she 
said coldly. And while Paul ran lightly 
up the stairs, she grumbled : 

“A young fellow who has been badly 
brought up I The idea of his taking the 
words out of my mouth in that way ! If 
you ever come again, my young man, I 
shall know you, and 1 doubt if you find 
Monsieur Andre at home ! ” 

Paul was already on the fourth floor, 
and on the door at the right a visiting 
card was nailed, on which Paul read “ An- 
di’e.” As there was no bell, he knocked, 
and then mechanically listened, as one 
naturally does in such cases. 

At once he heard footsteps, a piece of 
furniture moved, the rattling of brass 
rings on an iron rod, and a clear, youthful 
voice cried : “ Come in ! ” 

Mascarot’s protege opened the door. 
He found himself in an atelier, lighted 
from above. The room was of good size, 
simple in its furniture, but exquisitely 
clean and orderly. Sketches and draw- 
ings, as well as unfinished pictures, hung 
upon the wall. At the right was a low, 
broad divan, covered by a Tunisian carpet. 
Over the mantel was a large mirror in a 
carved frame, that would have excited the 
cupidity of an amateur. On the left was 
a very large easel, but a curtain of green 
serge covered the picture which stood up- 
on it, only its frame, which was of ex- 
traordinary richness, being seen. 

In the centre of the atelier, his palette 
on his thumb, and pencils in his hand, 
stood a young man — Andre himself. He 
was a tall young fellow, dark and admir- 
ably built, wearing close-cut hair and a 
full beard, fine, silky and curling black, 
with blueish lights. Compared to Paul, 
Andre was certainly not handsome. But 
the young painter had all that was lacking 
in the face of Mascarot’s protege : a face 
full of expression, a face that once seen is 
never forgotten ; his brow was broad and 
haughty, his mouth firmly closed, his feat- 
ures cleanly cut, while his frank smile and 
honest eyes told the story of his loyalty, 
intelligence, goodness of heart and energy. 

One singularity struck Paul at once: 
that Andre, who was painting, wore no 
artist’s blouse, but was dressed with ex- 
treme care, if not in the latest style. On 


seeing Paul, Andre laid down his palette, 
and came forward with his hand cordially 
extended. 

“ Ah ! ” he said, “ I am glad to see you. 
I could not imagine what had become of 
you.” 

This friendly greeting annoyed Masca- 
rot’s protege. “I have had a thousand 
disappointments,” he began; a thousand 
cares — ” 

“ And Rose ? ” interrupted Andre ; “ you 
bring me good news of her, I hope. Is 
she as pretty as ever? ” 

“Just the" same,” answered Paul, indif- 
ferently. “ But you must excuse me.” he 
added, “ for having vanished so entirely 
from your view. I come to thank you 
now, and to return your loan.” 

The young painter shrugged his should- 
ers indifferently. 

“Pshaw,” he said, “you were the only 
one of us two who ever thought of the 
matter again. Pray, do not give yourself 
any inconvenience.” 

This phrase did not please Paul ; he fan- 
cied that under this appearance of gener- 
osity was the intention of humiliating him. 
Never was there so delightful an opportu- 
nity of showing his superiority. 

“ Oh,” he said, with his most conceited 
air, “it gives me no possible inconvenience. 
I was, I admit it, in abject poverty at the 
time you obliged me, but now I am in 
receipt of a salary of twelve thousand 
francs.” 

He thought that the artist would be daz- 
zled, and that he should elicit some en- 
vious exclamation. He found himself 
mistaken, and was obliged to add: “At 
my age, that is very nice.” 

“ Magnificent, I should call it. And 
may I ask, if it is not an indiscretion, what 
your employment is? ” 

This question was perfectly natural un- 
der all the circumstances; yet, as Paul 
could not answer it, for he was as yet in 
utter ignorance of his future duties, it 
wounded him as if it had been a premedi- 
tated insult. 

“I work I” he said, straightening him- 
self up. 

His air and manner, his way of speak- 
ing, was so singular that Andre appeared 
surprised. 

“I, too,” he answered after a moment’s 
pause, “ am always at work.” 

“Yes; but I am obliged to exert myself 
more than you, as I have no one to interest 
himself in my future, neither friend nor 
protector 1 ” 

The ungrateful fellow had forgotten 
Mascarot; his words, however, amused 
the artist considerably. 

“Really,” he said, “do you imagine 
that the administration of the hospitals 
furnishes protectors to its foundlings?” 

Paul opened his eyes to their fullest ex- 
tent. 

“ What ! ” he exclaimed, “ are you ” 


40 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


“ Precisely. And I make no mystery of 
it, hoping that there is no occasion for me 
to blush, although there may be for me to 
weep : all my comrades know this, and I 
am astonished that you are in ignorance. 
I am simply a child from the Hospital de 
Vendome. Until I was twelve, I was the 
happiest of children, for my teachers were 
pleased with me and with my happy facil- 
ity for study. 1 worked all day in the gar- 
den; and in the evening 1 wasted a vast 
amount of paper, for even then I deter- 
mined to be an artist. But nothing stands 
still in this world, and the Superior one 
day took it into her head to apprentice me 
to a tanner.” 

Paul was seated on the divan, and as he 
listened, he rolled a cigarette. He was 
about to light it, when Andre prevented it, 
by saying: ‘‘I beg your pardon, but you 
will oblige me by not smoking here.” 

Without asking the reason for this re- 
quest, for the painter was an incessant 
smoker himself, Paul tossed his match 
aside. I obey,” he said, ‘‘ but go on 
with your story.” 

‘‘Oh! willingly, as it is not very long. 
This trade of a tanner was disagreeable to 
me from the fii*st moment, and on the sec- 
ond day an awkward workman upset a 
kettle of boiling water, which scalded me 
so cruelly that I still bear the traces.” As 
he spoke, he turned up his right sleeve- 
and showed a scar that ran the whole 
length of his arm. 

“ Disgusted and scalded, I implored the 
Superior, a terrible woman with spectacles, 
to apprentice me to some other trade ; but 
my entreaties were useless. She had 
sworn that I should be a tanner ! ” 

‘•That was pretty hard.” 

“ Plarder than you think! But from 
that day my mind was made up. I deter- 
mined to run away as soon as I had saved 
some trifle. I consequently became the 
most industrious and attentive of appren- 
tices. At the end of a year, thanks to 
prodigies of economy and industry on my 
part. I had saved about thirty francs. I 
made up my mind that this would do, and 
one exquisite April morning, furnished 
with one shirt, a blouse, and a pair of 
shoes, I started on foot for Paris ” 

And you were only thirteen?” 

“Not quite thirteen. Fortunately, I 
had received from Heaven a pretty large 
amount of that strong will called by many 
persons head-strong folly. I had sworn 
that I would be a painter ” 

“And you succeeded?” 

“ With infinite difficulty. Ah ! I can 
see now the inn where 1 slept that first 
night I arrived in Paris. 1 was so worn 
out, that I slept fifteen hours on the stretch. 
When 1 awoke, I ordered a good break- 
fast, and then, seeing that my funds were 
very low, I said to m 3 '-self : ‘ To work, 

my bo}^ to work ! ’ ” 

Paul smiled. He remembered his first 


days in Paris ; he was only twenty-two, 
and had but forty francs. 

“You wished to find some employment?” 
he asked. 

“ Yes, and something more. I said to 
myself, that to know a thing I must learn 
it, and if I passionately longed to make 
money it was that 1 might pursue my stud- 
ies. Fortunately,” continued Andre, “ near 
me sat, while I eat, a stout man who was 
breakfasting. ‘ See,’ I said, ‘look at me; 
I am thirteen, but I am much stronger than 
my years ; I can read and write ; I am not 
afraid of work. What shall I do to gain 
my bread?’ 

“ He looked at me from head to foot, and 
then in a rough voice, said : 

“ ‘ Go, to-morrow morning, to the mar- 
ket, and engage with some master mason.’ ” 

“ And you went? ” 

“ Yes ; and fortunate it was for me. At 
four o’clock the next morning I was scru- 
tinizing every group of workmen that I 
met, when suddenly I saw my stout friend ; 
he came toward me at once. ‘ Boy,’ he 
said, ‘ you please me ; I am an ornamental 
sculptor ; will you be my apprentice ? ’ To 
learn sculpture — I thought thac Heaven 
was opening before me. ‘ Certainly,’ I 
said, ‘I will.’ No sooner said than done. 
This good man was the father of my actual 
master.” 

‘‘ But your painting? ” 

“Oh, that came much later. I wished 
to obtain a certain education. I therefore 
studied in all my leisure hours. I went to 
school in the evening regularly, and fol- 
lowed a distinct plan. I bought books, 
aijd on Sunday I even employed a teacher 
for myself alone.” 

“ Out of your economies? ” 

“Precisely; and it was a long time be- 
fore I ventured to indulge myself with a 
glass of beer. ‘ Six sous,’ I said to myself ; 
‘put it away, Andre.’ Finally the day 
came when I made my eighty or hundred 
francs per week ; and then 1 ventured to 
indulge in my painting.” 

Had Andre sought to mortify and wound 
Paul, he could have expressed himself in 
no different way. Each one of his words 
fell on the head of Mascarot’s protege like 
a slap on his cheek, and yet he felt that 
some remark was expected of him; he, 
therefore, made an effort and said : 

“ When one has such talent as yours, 
success becomes a certainty.” 

Then, as if seeking confirmation of this 
opinion, he rose, and apparently examined 
the sketches on the wall. In rea lty, he 
was strongly attracted by this heavily- 
framed picture that stood in front of him, 
so carefully protected by a curtain. While 
Andre’s recital had been going on, Paul, 
annoyed as he was, found his thoughts 
dwelling with strange persistency on this 
picture. He remembered the indiscreet 
babble of the old concierge on the subject 
I of that veiled lady, who, accompanied by 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


41 


her maid, came to visit the painter. Had 
he not himself, when he knocked, received 
a tardy admission? Had he not heard the 
easel moved and the curtain drawn? For 
whom. too. was this careful toilet? Then 
why should Andre have asked him not to 
smoke? From all this Paul decided that 
Andre was in momentary expectation of 
the lady’s arrival, and that the portrait was 
unquestionably her likeness. He therefore 
determined to* see it, whether Andre gave 
his consent or not. Consequently, he went 
around the room admiring each picture. 
AVith ohs! and ahs! of approval, Paul 
maneuvered in such a way as to approach 
the easel almost imperceptibly. When he 
reached it, he said, abruptly, as he ex- 
tended his hand : 

“And this — what is it? The pearl of 
your studio, I presume.” 

But Andre, naturally unsuspicious, was 
by no means dull of apprehension. He 
had divined Paul’s intentions. Wounded 
deeply, he said nothing, thinking he might 
be mistaken, but he watched. Conse- 
quently at the precise moment when Paul 
stretched out his arm, Andre did the same, 
with even more energy, and stopped him, 
saying at the same time: “If I conceal 
this picture, it is because I do not wish it 
to be seen!” 

“Ah! pardon me,” said Paul, seeking 
to make a joke of his indiscreiion ; but in 
reality he was highly displeased at the 
tone adopted by the artist, and stamped it 
mentally as absurd, to a degree. “ Very 
well,” he said to himself, “Twill pro- 
long my visit, and see the original if 1 am 
not allowed to look at her picture ! ” 

And with amiable determination he 
seated himself in the large arm-chair near 
the artist’s table, and began a long stoiy, 
resolved to take no notice of any one of 
Andre's significant gestures, who watched 
the clock in obvious anxiety, comparing it 
from time to time with his warch. Paul 
talked on and on, and grew more animated 
as he saw almost under his hand a photo- 
graph of a young woman. 

Taking advantage of Andre’s preoccu- 
pation, he proceeded to examine it for a 
moment. "" Ah ! ” he said, “ this is pretty, 
very pretty ! ” 

At this remark Andre flushed scarlet, 
and with unheard of violence he snatched 
the carte from Paul's hands and shut it up 
in a book. This act betrayed such exces- 
sive anger that Mascarot’s protege turned 
pale and rose to his feet. For a minute or 
more the two young men looked silently 
into each other eyes, measuring each 
other as mortal enemies might have done. 
They hardly knew each other. The same 
chance which had brought them together 
might again separate them forever. And 
yet each vaguely felt that the other exer- 
cis(‘d over his life a decisive influence. 

Andre recovered himself first. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said, “ I was 


wrong to leave lying about precious and 
sacred relics which should be carefully 
put away ! ” Paul bowed with the air of a 
man who accepts an apology, when the 
painter added : “I rarelj’’ receive any one 
except my friends. To-day I have made 
an exception to my rule ” 

AVith a lofty gesture Paul interrupted 
the artist. 

' “ Believe me, sir, he said, in a tone that 
he did his best to make wounding and in- 
sulting: “ believe me, sir, that but for the 
imperative duty which calls me I should 
never have intruded.” 

So saying he turned on his heel and left 
the room, closing the door violently after 
him. 

“ Good. May the devil fly away with 
you, fool ! ” muttered Andre. “ Thank 
heaven that I did not throw you out of the 
window!” 

As to Paul, it was in a furious rage that 
he left the studio. Having come with the 
kindly intention of humiliating a comrade 
by the display of his prosperity, he with- 
drew crushed and mortified. He compared 
himself with this young man, so confident 
and so self-reliant, and saw himself as he 
was — small and petty — and he hated 
Andre for all the noble qualities which he 
was forced to recognize in him, and, there- 
fore, began to hate him with a deadly 
hatred. 

“ It is all the same,” he muttered, “he 
shall not have his own way ; and see the 
lady I will.” And without possibly realiz- 
ing the extreme baseness of the act, he 
crossed the street and placed himself 
where he had a full view of the house 
where Andre resided. 

It hailed ; but certain minds often ex- 
hibit in the satisfaction of their petty 
vengeance a tenacity that they fail to apply 
to more important matters. He waited a 
good half hour, when suddenly a cab 
drew up at the door of the house so care- 
fully watched by Paul. Two women 
descended; the one young, with an evi- 
dent air of distinction; the other was 
dressed like a servant in a well ordered 
mansion. 

Without any hesitation Paul a;Pproached 
and, despite the shelter of a thick veil, he 
recognized without difficulty, the lady of 
the photograph. 

“Ah, well!” he said, frankly, “ I like 
Rose best; and the proof is, that I am go- 
ing at once to find her. We will pay Lou- 
pias, and leave behind us forever that de- 
testable Hotel du Peron. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

SABINE DE MUSSIDAN. 

Mascarot’s protege had not been the only 
spy upon the young artist’s visitor. At 
the noise of the carriage wheels, Poilevin, 
the most discreet of concierges, planted 
herself on the threshold of tli3 door, both 


42 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


her eyes obstinately fixed upon the young 
lady. As soon as the two women had dis- 
appeared up the stairs, Poilevin had an in- 
spiration. She went out and spoke to the 
coachman. 

“ It is a very bad night,” she said. “I 
do not envy you your seat in such weather 
as this.” 

Don't speak of it,” answered the man ; 
“ my feet are absolutely frozen.” 

Have your two fares come any long 
distance? ” 

I should say so, indeed I I took them 
to-day up on the Champs Elysees, near the 
Avenue Matignon.” 

“ Is it possible I ” 

“Yes, and only four sous of pour hoire, 
ITo, defend me from respectable women I ” 

“ Ah ! respectable, are they? ” 

“ Yes, I will answer for them. The 
others are more generous by far. I know 
them both.” 

At the same moment, delighted to have 
given this proof of his penetration, he 
struck his horse with a light lash and 
departed. 

The concierge regained her quarters, 
only half pleased. 

I know it,” she said, “that is the quar- 
ter where all the princesses live. The 
next time I will offer something to the 
maid, and she will tell me everything. 

But this hope was but a chimera, for the 
maid was absolutely devoted to her mis- 
tress, and was, too, by no means pleased 
with the persistent looks by which she was 
followed up the stairs, and complained to 
the mistress of what she called “ the inso- 
lence of the creature.” “ 8he would cer- 
tainly,” she added, “coinplain of her to 
Andre, who would quickly make her under- 
stand that he resented her impertinence.” 

But the mere idea of any complaint 
startled the lady, who turned toward her 
maid and said, firmly : “ No, Modeste, do 
not open your lips" to Andre on the sub- 
ject.” 

“ But, mademoiselle ” 

“Hush I remember what I say. and 
obey me. Come, we must hurry, for he 
is waiting.” 

Yes, he was waiting in all that delicious 
agony of suspense known only at twenty. 
After Paul’s departure Andre could not sit 
still; it seemed to him that each second 
was an eternity. He had opened the door 
of his studio, and at each slight noise below 
he ran to the stairs. 

At last he really heard her : a harmony 
like that of the celestial spheres is the 
rustling of the loved one’s robe. Leaning 
over the railing, he caught a glimpse of 
her ; yes, it was she ; she had reached the 
second floor — now the third — then she 
entered his studio, the door of which he 
now no longer left open. 

“ Good-evening, Andre,” she said, offer- 
ing her hand; “you see that I am 
punctual.” 


Pale with emotion and trembling like a 
leaf, Andre took the little hand and pressed 
it respectfully to his lips, as he staiiiinered ; 

“Mademoiselle Sabine! oh how good 
you are. Thanks ! ” 

It was indeed Sabine, the only descend- 
ant of the old and powerful house of De 
Mussidan, who was there with Andre, the 
foundling of the Hospital de Vendome. It 
was Sabine, a young girl, naturally re- 
served and timid, educated to respect all 
social conventionalities, who thus risked 
all that was most precious to her in the 
world — her honor and reputation. 

It was she who, having all the prejudices 
of her education and race, thus crossed 
the frightful abyss separating the Rue de 
Matignon from the studio in the Rue de la 
Tour d’ Auvergne. It is for such daring 
steps as these that reason finds no excuse, 
but which the heart easily explains. 

For more than two years Sabine and 
Andre had loved each other. They met 
at the Chateau de Mussidan for the first 
time, brought together by a succession of 
trifling incidents, which set at defiance all 
precautions of human prudence. 

Man conceives and combines project af- 
ter project, but above all rules the inexor- 
able Providence — fools say chance — 
whose far-seeing eye and able hand ar- 
ranges everything for the accomplishment 
of its impenetrable designs. 

At the end of the summer of 1865, An- 
dre, whose constant application to his 
work had in a degree injured his health, 
made up his mind to go on a journey, 
when, one evening, his master, Jean Lan- 
ier, sent for him. 

“If you wish,” he said, “ to rest, and at 
the same time to make three or four hun- 
dred fiancs, now is your chance. An ar- 
chitect has sent to me to ask for a sculptor 
to execute something in the country — in a 
superb place, with magnificent scenery all 
about. Would you like to undertake this? ” 

The proposal was most acceptable to 
Andre, and at the end of the week he was 
on his way, with the prospect ^f a month’s 
absence from the heat and turmoil of the 
city. On his arrival at Mussidan, he made 
an examination of the work entrusted to 
him, and saw that he couid accomplish it 
with perfect ease. It was simply to re- 
store the ornaments over a balcony that 
had been recently repaired. The whole 
couid l>e completed in a fortnight. But 
he did not hurry; the surrounding country 
delighted him; he made a succession of 
charming studies, and his health returned 
in the open air and sunshine. 

But another reason why he was in no 
haste — but this reason he dared not ac- 
knowledge even to himself — was that he 
had caught a glimpse, in the park, of a 
young girl whose eyes, as she glanced at 
jfiim simply in passing, had filled his heart 
with a new and secret trouble. This 
young girl was Sabine. 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


43 


When the hot days of the summer came, 
the count departed for Germany ; the 
countess took refuge at Luzon, and they 
could think of nothing betler to do with 
their daughter than to send her to this old 
family manor, under the protection of one 
of their aged aunts. 

The story of these two young people is 
hut a simple tale, like that of all those 
hearts that have been truly young, and 
who have loved with sincerity. 

They exchanged a word or two one 
morning, and the next Sabine went out on 
the balcony to watch Andre at work, tak- 
ing a childish plea'ure in the movements 
of his chisels as he worked on the hard 
stone. Although more disturbed than he 
had ever been before in his life, Andre 
ventured to speak to her. They talked 
for a long time and she was astonished at 
the cultivation of this young man, who, in 
his loose, white blouse, and broad-brimmed 
hat, had seemed to her a simple mechanic. 

Ignorant and inexperienced, Sabine was 
incapable of analyzing her new sensations. 
Andre was cautious, but one evening, af- 
ter a severe examination of himself, he 
was obliged to confess the truth. “ I am 
in love with her,” he murmured — ^‘it is 
unfortunately too true.” Then as a ray 
of common sense showed him the full ex- 
tent of his folly and presumption, and he 
realized the barrier separating him from 
this young girl of noble birth and immense 
wealth, he was overwhelmed with con- 
sternation. 

The Chateau de Mussidan is in a most 
secluded country. To reach the nearest 
village it was necessary to pass through a 
part of the forest; consequently, on An- 
dre’s arrival it was decided that he must 
take his meals at the chateau. He took 
them alone at the hours he pleased in the 
grand salon, waited on by an old servant 
of the house. After a short time this iso- 
lation struck Sabine as an enormous in- 
convenience and a needless humiliation. 

‘‘ Why does not M. Andre take his meals 
with us?” she asked her aunt. “He is 
certainly much better bred than many of 
the persons whom you receive, and he 
would amuse you.” 

The old lady adopted the suggestion. 
Of course it seemed to her a most extra- 
ordinary thing to admit to her table a 
young man who had been chiseling the 
stones on the house all day long. But 
then she was really so ennuied. 

Invited on the impulse of the moment, 
Andre as impulsively accepted, and the 
old lady felt that her eyes deceived her 
when, at the appointed hour, a guest en- 
tered her presence who had all the grace 
and ease of manner, as well as the costume 
of a town-bred gentleman. 

“ It is incredible,” she said to her neice, 
as she was making her preparations for 
the night, “absolutely incredible, that a 
mere stone-cutter should have the air of a 


grand seigneur ! But the end of all things 
has come, it seems to me, there are no 
longer any distinctions of rank. I see 
only utter confusion, and we are marching 
rapidly toward chaos ; it is quite time that 
I should die.” 

Notwithstanding all her prejudices An- 
dre found his way into the good graces of 
the old lady, and finally completed his 
conquest by painting her portrait in all 
her jewels and laces, which, while it flat- 
tered her prodigiously, was an excellent 
likeness. From that moment he was re- 
ceived on the most cordial footing, and no 
longer fearing a rebuff, he showed himself 
both clever and original in conversation. 
On one occasion he related to Madame de 
Chevanche the story of his life as simply 
as he had told it to Paul, but with more 
details. Sabine was deeply interested in 
the recital, wonder-struck at the heroism 
and endurance of which he had been capa- 
ble as a child, and at the development of 
these qualities which had finally won for 
him a foothold on the path to distinction. 
She admired his courage and perseverance. 
She recognized in him, and with reason, 
the superior being of whom young girls 
dream. Finally she loved him and dared 
to acknowledge it to herself. And why 
not? Their destinies, far apart as they 
seemed, had certain points of resemblance. 
With a father and mother who held in 
equal honor the domestic fireside, Sabine 
was really as much left to herself as was 
Andre ! Their days now passed as rapidly 
as did their seconds before they knew each 
other. Forgotten by the whole world, 
apparently, buried in the depths of this 
isolated chateau, they were free as the 
summer breezes — for Madame de Chev- 
anche never troubled them. Regularly af- 
ter breakfast the old lady begged Andre 
to read the Gazette to her, and regularly, 
also, between the twentieth and thirtieth 
lines, she fell asleep, and the whole cha- 
teau was silent, as was her orders under 
such circumstances, no one daring to dis- 
turb her. 

The two young people slipped away on 
tiptoe, laughing and gay as two truants 
from iLchool; and they wandered, then, 
through the wide avenues of the park, in 
the shadows of the century of oaks, or 
climbed the russet-colored rocks on the 
river-side. Sometimes they took an old 
worm-eaten boat, rowed badly enough by 
Andre, and drifted down the stream, over 
which hung sheets of flowery clematis 
and blue iris. The stream itself was often 
a tangled mass of water-li ies and reeds. 

Two months thus slipped away, two en- 
tire months of enchantment. Two months 
of intoxication and love, although the 
word love never once leaped from their 
hearts to their lips. After having for a 
long time fought against a passion, out of 
which he could see no happy issue, Andre 
ended by throwing all these reflections 


44 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


aside. He refused to think of the future, 
in the same way that a consumptive refuses 
to think of her malady. He anticipated, 
vaguely, some great calamity that would 
separate them, hut while awaiting it every 
night he thanked his God on bended knees 
that he had granted him another day of 
happiness. ‘•JS'o,” he said to himself, “ it 
cannot last, I am too happy,” and he was 
right. Anxious to justify his lingering at 
Mussidan, Andre, after completing the 
task that had brought him there, decided 
to add to the decorations of the house, a 
chef-d*ceuvre of modern art. He determined 
to throw over the stone of the old balcony 
a garland of leaves and flowers. Each 
day, while the world still slept, his . task 
advanced. 

One morning the old valet came to him 
while he was thus occupied, to say that 
Madame Chevanche wished to speak to 
him. “ Madame begged me to hurry you, 
sir,” said the servant, as it is a matter of 
importance.” 

A presentiment of evil sharper than a 
dagger pierced the heart of the young ar- 
tist. He saw at once that his brief hours 
of bliss were over, and it was with the 
slow and heavy step of a criminal led to 
the scaflbld that he followed the valet, who 
as he opened the door of the salon where 
Sabine’s aunt was waiting, said in a low 
whisper : 

“Take care, sir, take care! Madame is 
in such a state of mind. I never have 
seen her in this way since the day that my 
master died.” 

And in truth the old lady was in a terri- 
ble temper ; and in spite of her rheumatism, 
was walking up and down the long room, 
her high cap sideways, and gesticulating 
earnestly, at the same time striking the 
wooden floor sharp raps with her cane. 
When Andre appeared, she suddenly 
stopped, with her head thrown haughtily 
back. 

“Ah, well! my good fellow,” she ex- 
claimed, in that loud, masculine voice held 
in reserve for great occasions by the wo- 
men of the ancient aristocracy, “you have 
had the impudence, I am told, to make 
love to my niece ! ” 

She addressed the young man precisely 
as she might have spoken to a farm ser- 
vant, thinking thus to awaken in him a 
more vivid sense of the enormity of his 
offense. Pale as Andre had previously been, 
he now crimsoned to the roots of his hair. 

“Madame! ” he stammered. 

“ Good heavens ! man, do you intend to 
make a denial, when your very face tells 
the truth?” cried the angry old lady. 
“ Do you know that you are an impudent 
knave, to presume to lift your eyes to Sa- 
bine de Mussidan? Whence came your 
courage for such audacity? From my 
kindness, probably. Did you mean to se- 
duce her, and thus compel us to permit 
you to marry her? ” 


“ I swear to you, madame. Upon my 
honor ” 

“ Upon your honor? To hear you. one 
would suppose you were a born nobleman. 
Would that my husband were alive, he 
would break every bone in your body; but 
I must simply content myself with order- 
ing you from the premises. Pick up your 
tools, my man, and be off! ” 

Andre did not move. He stood as if 
turned to stone. He, ordinarily so impa- 
tient under any rudeness, hardly noticed 
the indignity with which he was treated. 
He realized only one thing, and that was 
that he should never again see Sabine. As 
the full force of this misfortune swept 
over him he turned deadly pale, and stag- 
gered to a chair. His manner of receiving 
the explosion was so unexpected by the 
old lady, that the matron was over- 
whelmed, and for a moment or two she 
could not speak. 

I have been very severe with you, sir,’’ 
she said, resuming her usual courteous 
manner. “I am, unfortunately, very 
quick-tempered. This unfortunate affair 
is my fault in a very great degree. As the 
Cure de Berron said, when he came at 
day-break to warn me, 1 am so old that 1 
had forgotten how young people were 
likely to conduct themselves. 1 was the 
only one it seems who was in ignorance, 
while the whole country were chattering 
of you and my niece.” 

Andre started to his feet with so threat- 
ening a gesture, that had the six hundred ‘ 
inhabitants of Berron seen him, they would 
have fled in abject terror. 

“Ah!” he cried, “if I only had the 
wretches by the throat ! ” 

“Good!” exclaimed Madame de Chev- 
anche, by no means displeased with this 
vigorous language. “ Good ! but you can 
hardly expect to cut out every malicious 
tongue. There is not much harm done 
yet, fortunately, so go away, and forget 
my niece.” 

“Go away and forget!” As well she 
might have said to Andre : “ Die ! ” 
“Madame,” he began, in a despairing 
tone, “pray, listen to me. I am young, 
and full of courage and hope ! ” 

His despair was so intense, his voice was 
so broken, the old lady was so touched 
that tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks . 

“Why do you say this to me?” shvo 
asked. “ Sabine is not my child. All tha 
I can do, is never to mention this matter 
or your name to the father and mother ol 
my great niece. Good heavens! if the day 
should ever come that Mussidan should 
have any suspicion of what has been going 
on! Come, now, do go away! You have 
made me ill, and I do not believe that I 
shall eat a mouthful in the next two da 3 ^s.” 

Andre left the room, sustaining himself 
against the wall as he went. It seemed to 
him that the floor rolled like the deck of 
a ship under his feet. His ideas whirled 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


45 


through his brain like a dried leaf under 
the wild breath of a hurricane ; he could 
see nothing, but in the vestibule he felt 
that some one took his hand. He endeav- 
ored to collect his thoughts. It was Sabine, 
white and cold as marble. 

1 heard all, Andre, all! ” she said. 

“ Yes,” he stammered. ‘‘ It is all over ; 
I am driven away.” 

Where are you going? ” 

“God only knows! And after I leave 
this place, I do not care.” 

Sabine laid her hand on his arm. 

“You are desperate,” she whispered. 

He looked at her with eyes that terrified 
her, and in a low, dull voice answered: 
“ Desperate, indeed ! ” 

Never had Sabine been so lovely. Her 
eyes sparkled with generous determina- 
tion, and her face glowed. 

“ If,” she said, “ I should show you a 
faint gleam of hope in the future, what 
then would you do? ” 

What would I do? ” cried Andre, with 
delirious exultation. “What would I not 
do? Everything in the power of man. Let 
obstacles " multiply around us, I would 
dash them aside. Let them impose on me 
the most difficult conditions, I will fulfil 
them. If a fortune is wanted, I will make 
it — a name, I will win it ! ” 

“You have forgotten one thing that is 
needed: patience.” 

“Ah! mademoiselle, I have that too. 
Do you not understand that with one word 
from you I can live on hope? ” 

Sabine lifted one hand, calling on heaven 
to hear her. “ Work,” she said, “ work and 
hope, Andre, for I swear before God that 
I will be your wife, or die unmarried. If 

there must be a contest then ” 

Here a terrible voice in the hall inter- 
rupted her, it was the old lady who, with 
her cane, rapped loudly on the door : 

“ Still here ! ” she cried, her voice ringing 
like a bugle call. 

Andre fled, with a heart as light as a 
bird, bearing with him a hope which would 
enable him to bear without a murmur all 
the trials of his daily life. What happened 
after his departure between Madame de 
Chevanche and her niece? The servant 
remarked that, after a long conference, the 
eyes of both were swollen and red. It is 
possible that Sabine coaxed the old lady 
round to her way of thinking ; for, two 
months later, Madame de Chevanche died, 
leaving all her large property directly to 
Sabine by a will properly drawn up", be- 
queathing her the income thereof as long 
as she remained single, and the entire cap- 
ital on the day of her marriage, “ with or 
without the consent of her parents.’’ This 
clause induced the Countess de Mussidan 
to say, “ Our poor heart lost her mind at 
last.” 

No, she had not lost her mind. Sabine 
and Andre understood her perfectly ; and 
they sincerely mourned the excellent wo- 


man, whose last desire was to make their 
paths smooth for them. 

They were then in Paris, and Andre re- 
doubled his labors, while Sabine renewed 
her promises. Sabine in Paris was even 
more mistress of her time and actions than 
when at Mussidan. To mount guard over 
her, there was only her faithful Modeste, 
who would have almost committed a crime 
for her, had one been needed. Sabine had 
given Andre permission to write to her, 
and later, granted him several interviews, 
and finally, yielding to his entreaties, she 
consented to go to his atelier, always ac- 
companied, be it understood, by Modeste : 
and here we wish to say, that never a sov- 
ereign. Visiting her devoted subjects, never 
a Madonna borne at the head of a proces- 
sion of worshippers, was more the object 
of respectful adoration, than that which 
surrounded Sabine in the artist’s humble 
home. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“MADAME LA VICOMTESSE.” 

Of course, mademoiselle had the most 
absolute certainty of boundless respect be- 
fore she decided to go to Andre’s studio. 
And when she entered this modest studio, 
pervaded as it was with thoughts of her, 
she seemed to breathe the incense that had 
burned in her honor. To see her so cairn 
and so natural, no one would have dreamed 
that she was taking, and was conscious of 
so doing, the most hazardous step that a 
young girl could possibly be guilty of. 
After having given her hand to Andre, she 
slowly untied the strings of her hat, took 
it ofl*, and handed it to Modeste, saying, as 
she did so : 

“ How do I look, my friend? ” 

The passionate exclamation of the artist 
to this question made her smile, and it was 
very gayly that she added : 

“I would say: Am I as I ought to be 
for my picture?” 

Sabine was beautiful; but to compare 
her beauty with that of Rose, as Paul had 
done, would have been a folly. 

The beauty of Rose was of that kind 
that take the senses captive, and wins the 
light admiration of a libertine. Sabine’s 
was of a different character, refined and 
idealized. Rose chained the body to this 
earth, Sabine lifted the soul up toward 
Heaven ; her beauty was not of the kind 
that dazzles, for an air of somewhat 
haughty reserve obscured its brilliancy. 
She could have passed unnoticed, like a 
forgotten Raphael, buried in dust, and 
hanging in an obscure village church. 
But when one’s attention was once at- 
tracted, one never tired of admiring her 
low, broad brow, crowned by braids of 
chestnut hair ; her large, soft eyes, her ex- 
quisitely-cut lips, and her transparent 
complexion. 

She had adopted for her portrait a coif- 


46 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


fure, out of fashion for a long time, hut 
which suited her wonderfully, and it was 
in connection with this coiffure that she 
said : “ How do I look? ” 

‘‘ Alas ! ” said Andre, “ when I see you 
I realize all my powerlessness. An hour 
ago I said to myself, the portrait is fin- 
ished! Now I realize that I have done 
nothing.” 

He had drawn aside the serge curtain, 
and Sabine’s portrait stood with the light 
full upon it. It was by no means a work 
of extraordinary merit. Andre was but 
twenty-four, and while studying he had 
been compelled to toil also for his daily 
bread. But it was one of those composi- 
tions which bear the stamp of great origi- 
nality, and whose very faults and evident 
lack of experience have a certain charm. 
Sabine stood for a moment in silence, and 
it was in a tone of sincere conviction that 
she said: 

‘‘ That is beautiful.” 

The young painter, however, was too 
discouraged to notice this praise. 

‘‘ It is a good likeness,” he said slowly, 
*‘but a photograph is that, too. I have 
not been able to fix on that canvas a look 
of your inner self. It is a mere vulgar 
daub ; I shall try again, and then ” 

Sabine interrupted him with a gesture 
of denial. 

“You will not try again,” she said, in a 
sweet but firm voice. 

. “ Why not?” he asked in surprise. 

“Because, my dear friend, this visit will 
be my last.” 

“ The last,” stammered Andre. “ What 
have I done that you should punish me so 
cruelly?” 

“ I am not punishing you, Andre,” an- 
swered Sabine. “You desired my por- 
trait; I yieided to your entreaties, and do 
not regret having done so. Listen, now, 
to the voice of reason. Do you not under- 
stand that I have no right to trifle in this 
way with my reputation? Have you 
thought what the world would say if it 
should ever be known that I have come 
here day after day? ” 

He did not reply; he was recovering 
himself after this heavy blow. 

“ Besides,” resumed Mademoiselle de 
Mussidan : “ what shall we do with a pict- 
ure that must be hidden like a bad action? 
Do you forget that on your rapid success 
depends our future — our marriage ! ” 

“ No — I don't forget that.” 

“ Hasten then to success and fame! It 
is not enough that I should think, and say, 
that my choice is not an ordinary one. 
You must prove the truth of my words by 
your works.” 

“ And I will do so ! ” 

“ So I believe, my dearest and best of 
friends. But you remember what I said a 
year ago : ‘ Become celebrated, and then 
go to the Comte de Mussidan, my father, 
. and ask him for the hand of his daughter. 


If he refuse — if my prayers do not move 
him — I will leave his house on your 
arm.’ ” 

“You are right!” cried Andre. “I 
should be a fool, indeed, if I should sacri- 
fice a future life of happiness for a few 
years of present joy. To hear you, there- 
fore, is to obey.” 

Mademoiselle de Mussidan was seated 
in the great arm-chair ; Andre leaning on 
the carved back. 

“ Then,” she said, “ as we agree so well, 
let us have a little discussion on our com- 
mon interests, of which, it seems to me, 
we have been somewhat negligent.” 

These common interests were simply 
Andre’s successes, and he at once began to 
tell her of all that had happened since he 
last saw her. 

“ I am really very much embarrassed,” 
he began. “ The day before yesterday. 
Prince Crescenzi, the celebrated amateur, 
came to visit my studio. One of my 
sketches pleased him, and he ordered a 
picture, agreeing to pay me six thousand 
francs.” 

“ But that is a great stroke of luck ! ” 

“ To be sure : but, unfortunately, he 
wants it at once. Then, again, Jean La- 
mu, overwhelmed with work, offers to 
give me the ornamentation of an enormous 
house that he is building for a rich specu- 
lator, Monsieur Gandelu. I am to engage 
all the workmen, and will receive seven 
or eight hundred francs.” 

“ But where is the embarrassment? ” 

“ Let me explain. I have seen Mon- 
sieur Gandelu twice : he wishes me to be- 
gin at once. I cannot accept both of these 
enterprises. I must decide between them.” 

Sabine thought for a moment. 

“ I should do the picture,” she said. 

“And I should agree with you, if it 
were not for ” 

The young girl knew her lover well 
enough to divine the cause of his hesita- 
tion. 

“ Ah!” she murmured, “ will you never 
love me well enough to forget that I am 
rich? Our plans would open quickly if 
you would consent ” 

Andre turned pale. 

“My child!” he cried, “would you 
poison our love ! ” 

She sighed, but did not insist. 

“ Decide,” she said.^ “ decide on the en- 
gagement with Monsieur Gandelu. ” 

The old cuckoo clock in the corner struck 
five ; Sabine rose. 

“Before leaving, my friend,” she said, 
“ I ought to inform you ox an annoyance 
that threatens me. There is a question of 
m ^marriage with Monsieur de Breulh-Fav- 
erlay.” 

“ That millionaire? ” 

“ Precisely. To resist my father’s will 
would bring about an explanation, which 
I by no means desire just at this time. I 
therefore propose to speak frankly to 


THE ISLAVES OF PABIS. 


47 


Monsieur de Breulh. I know him ; he is 
an honest, straightforward man — he will 
withdraw. What do 3^ou think of this 
plan?'’ 

“Alas!” said Andre, think if he 
withdraws, it will be only to make room 
for some one else.’’ 

“ Quite likely, and then we will dismiss 
his successor in his turn. Ought I not to 
have my share of the difficulties? ” 

But these difficulties frightened the un- 
happy lover. 

“ What a life yours will be,” he mur- 
mured, “ when it comes to wag 6 daily war 
with your family.” 

She looked at him proudly as she said : 

Do you doubt me?'’ 

Sabine was ready to leave. Andre 
wished to go himself and summon a car- 
riage. She refused, saying that Modeste 
and she were not afraid of walking if thej^ 
did not' succeed in finding a cab on their 
wa5^ As she took her leave, she said : “I 
shall see M. de Breulh to-morrow.” 

Andre was alone. When Mademoiselle 
de Mussidan left, it seemed to him that 
part of his life went with her ; but his de- 
pression did not last long. A happy in- 
spiration came to him. “ Sabine,” he said 
to himself, “went away on foot, I can 
therefore follow her at a distance without 
compromising her.” 

In ten seconds more he was in the street. 
It was growing dark, but not far from the 
corner he caught a glimpse of Sabine and 
her attendant, and immediately proceeded 
to follow them on the opposite side of the 
street, admiring Sabine’s walk, her air of 
distinction, and her dainty way of lifting 
her dress. “ And perhaps,” he murmured, 
“ the time will come when I shall have the 
right to go out with her, and shall feel the 
touch of her arm on mine ! ” This thought 
thrilled him like an electric battery. 
Sabine and Modeste reached the Rue 
Blanche. There they hailed a cab and en- 
tered it. The carriage was almost out of 
sight while Andre stood looking after it 
with sad and longing eyes. But he could 
not stand there forever; he therefore de- 
cided to go to his studies. On his way 
he passed a shop well lighted up ; he heard 
a gay young voice call him by name, 

Monsieur Andre ! Monsieur Andre ! ” 

He looked up in bewilderment, like a 
man who is just awakened from sleep, and 
looked about. Before him, near a coupe 
that glittered with newness and which was 
drawn by two fine horses, stood a young 
woman in the most conspicuous of cos- 
tumes. She made a friendl}^ sign to him. 
He racked his memory^ to recognize her. 

“I am not mistaken," he said, at last; 
‘‘ Mademoiselle Rose, is it not ? ” 

Immediately just behind him, almost in 
his ear, a falsetto voice was heard : 

“ Say Mademoiselle Flora de Chante- 
mille, if you please.” 

Andre turned, and found himself almost 


in the face of a young man who had fim 
ished giving his orders to the coachman. 

“ Ah ! ” said he, starting back. 

“Yes,” said the jmung gentleman: 
“ Chantemille is the name of the farm 
which I gave to madame the day after 
papa’s death ! ” 

It was with some little surprise that the 
painter examined this liberal personage, 
who wore a short co it, round vest, and 
low hat; an eye-glass and pink gloves, 
with a huge gold medallion hung on a gold 
chain. The whole aspect of the man was 
simply ridiculous. As to his face, it was 
that of a monkey, and Toto-Chupin had in 
no way exaggerated in so describing it. 

“Pshaw!’ cried Rose, “what differ- 
ence does a name make? The important 
thing now is to make this gentleman, who 
is a friend of mine, go home to dine with 
us ! ” 

And without awaiting a response, she 
gayly but roughly pushed Andre into a 
brilliantly lighted vestibule. 

“ How clever she is,” cried Gandelu. 
“Yes, she is clever — wonderfully clever, 
you see. Certainly her friends are my 
friends — ah, yes, of course ! ” and in this 
disconnected style jmung Gandelu wan- 
dered on. 

Somewhat disturbed by this abrupt on- 
slaught, and anxious to show her new- 
born power. Rose stood in front of the 
door, and repeated over and over again : 

“You must dine with us; I insist on it. 
You shall dine with us; you must, you 
shall ! '’ 

Then, as she prided herself on her good 
manners, she took in her own Gandelu’s 
and Andre’s hand. 

“ Monsieur Andre, I present to you 
Monsieur Gaston de Gandelu. Monsieur 
Gandelu this is Andre the painter.” 

The two jmung men bowed. 

“ Andre ! ” said Gandelu. “ I have heard 
the name before; and the face is famil- 
iar — ah, yes, I have it, it was at my 
father’s. Are you not, sir, in charge of 
the sculpture on his new house? Then 
you belong to us, and we mean to have a 
montre among ourselves to-night.” 

Andre still resisted. “I cannot,” he 
said ; “ I have an important engagement.’’ 

“Well, break it then. You are here, 
and we mean to keep you.” 

Andre hesitated. He was out of spirits, 
and felt a strong desire to escape from 
himself. “After all,” he said, “why 
should I decline? If this young man's 
friends are like himself, I shall not lack 
amusement.” 

“ Come,” said Rose, running to the 
stairs. Andre turned to follow her, but 
was held back by Gandelu, who whispered, 
with a delighted air : 

“Was there ever such a woman! and 
yet let me advise you to wait before you 
form an opinion. I have made nothing of 
her yet, and I assure you that there never 


48 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


was a person like myself to start a woman 
well in life. There is not my equal in 
Paris, I do assure you ! ” 

That is easily seen,” replied Andre, 
seriously. 

‘‘To be sure! First, you understand, I 
am always on the square. Gora is an odd 
name, 1 think — I chose it. Well, then 
Gora is not especially magnificent in her 
toilet to-night, but never mind, I have or- 
dered six costumes for her from Van Klo- 
pen. And such robes I You know Van 
Klopen, of course?” 

“ Not in the least.” 

“ Ah ! is that really so? Van Klopen, my 
dear fellow, is a dressmaker — a man 
dressmaker. He is an Alsatian, and such 
taste I such invention ! such cMc ! ” 

Peaching her apartment by this time. 
Rose called, impatiently, “ Gora, are you 
never coming? ” 

“ Quick ! ” said Gandelu to Andre ; “let 
us go up at once. When she is angry, she 
has terrible nervous attacks. She did not 
say so, but I know very well that if we 
keep her waiting, she will have one of these 
attacks directly.” 

Rose and Paul were not fitted by nature 
to understand each other ; they were far 
too much alike. If the new lady of Chan- 
teniille had so vioL-ntly insisted on retain- 
ing Andre at dinner, it was because she 
wished to dazzle him by all her magnifi- 
cence. 

As a beginning she exhibited her two 
servants, her cook and her maid — and the 
latter had such an air I Then Andre was 
called upon to go through all the rooms, 
and was not spared a single article of furni- 
ture. He was compelled to admire the 
et rnal Salon Bouton d'Or with its trim- 
mings of blue. He was forced to feel the 
thi kness of the hangings and the softness 
of the chairs. 

Gandelu preceded them, armed with a 
huge candelabra, whose eight candles inun- 
dated them with their dripping. He cal led 
Andre's attention to every detail, and told 
the price of everything in the tone of an 
appraiser. He intermingled with this 
domiciliary visit many philosophical re- 
fieciions. 

“ This clock,” he said, “ cost one hun- 
dred louis, a mere nothing for it, you un- 
dei-stand. It is so singular that you should 
know my father. Hasnothe aclearhead? 
That jardiniere was three hundred francs, 
but it was a gift. Be very careful, he is 
extremely cunning. He was determined 
on my becoming a working man, but I 
would rather die. No. that was by no 
means dear, that gueridon; it was only 
twenty louis. At first, you see, I did not 
know that he was not in good health, for 
the physicians now say that six months 

” He stopped — a loud noise was 

heard in the ante-room. “ Here come my 
guests! ” he cried, and placing his candel- 
abra on a table, he hurried out of the 


room. Andre was at once astonished and 
delighted. He had heard these young 
men spoken of, whose manners and cus- 
toms make the grand feature at the races 
of Vincennes, but he had never before 
seen one of them. 

His impressed air gladdened the soul of 
Rose. 

“ As you see,” she said. I have left 
Paul. As first, he wearied me inexpressi- 
bly, and at the last he had not a sou to 
buy me bread.” 

“ He? you are jesting ; for to-day he came 
to my roums, and told me that he was mak- 
ing twelve thousand francs per year.” 

“ Twelve thousand falsehoods ! At last 

Well, I can only say that a fellow 

who will accept five hundred francs from 
people he does not know ” 

She was silent, but made a sign that she 
had something more to saj^. 

Young Gandelu brought in his friends, 
and introduced them. The guests were as 
amusing as the hosts, and Andre had begun 
to congratulate himself on having come, 
when the servant, wearing a white cravat, 
threw open the door of the salon and 
said: 

“ Madame la Vicomtesse is served ! ” 


CHAPTER X. 

AN ACCUSATION OF THEFT. 

When Mascarot was asked what to do 
to achieve certain ends, his invariable re- 
ply was : 

“ Keep busy, sir, keep busy ! ” 

He had, it must be admitted, one great 
superiority over most men — he put in 
practice the maxims he professed ; conse- 
quently. the morning after his expedition 
to the Hotel de Mussidan, he was in his 
office and at work at seven o'clock in the 
morning. 

A thick fog lay over the city, even per- 
vading the olfice, where it was still dark, 
when the room began to fill. This crowd, 
however, was no concern of the head of 
the establishment, as it was mainly com- 
posed of servants from the creameries, or 
of cooks, who knew but little of what was 
going on in the houses where they were 
employed ; or, if they did, the information 
obtained from them was of no value to any 
one. 

Mascarot, therefore, relinquished these 
applicants to Beaumarchef, and did not 
disturb himself until he recognized, 
through the glass window, a face with 
which he was 1 ami liar, and whom he knew 
to be employed in some noble house, as 
maitre d’ hotel or butler. He therefore 
paid as little attention to the hubbub in the 
next apartment as a minister of state pays 
to the crowd in his ante-room. He was 
busily occupied in classifying those small 
squares of paper which had so puzzled 
Paul, and such was his preoccupation that, 
like a vase that is over-full, a constant drop- 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


49 


ping was kept up of words or sentences. 
‘‘What an undertaking!” he muttered, 
‘‘and yet what a result. I stand alone, it 
is true, before this enormous task. 1 alone 
hold in my hand the ends of all^ those 
threads which, for twenty years.^ with the 
patience of a spider weaving his web, I 
have raveled and unraveled. When I pull 
one of these threads the whole reply. 
Who that sees me would imagine this? 
People who pass me in the street say: 
‘ That is Mascarot, who keeps an employ- 
ment bureau for both sexes I ’ They laugh, 
and 1 make no objection to that — to power 
so sound as that v/hich is wielded in secret 
— for there is no chance of its being at- 
tacked and demolished! But no one sus- 
pects me — no one.” 

A more important paper than the rest 
now appeared, as he turned over those in 
his hand. He rapidly traced a line or two 
on its margin, and in a moment or two 
spoke again. 

“I may run aground, it is true. Some 
fine day the meshes of my net may snap, 
and some of the prey escape — and what 
then? 

“ That fool, the count, asked if I knew 
the laws of my country. I should say I 
did! No one has studied them more thor- 
oughly; and 1 know that in Vol. HI., 
Chapter II., is to be found a certain article, 
that seems to have been created with 
special view to my operations. Hard labor 
for a term of years, if you please ; and if 
a cunning magistrate knocks me over with 
Article 306, it becomes a question of hard 
labor for life ! ” As he uttered these 
words, a cold shiver passed the whole 
leniith of his spine; but it was of brief 
duration, for with a triumphant smile he 
resumed: 

“ Yes — but to send Mascarot to breathe 
the air at Gonlon, Mascarot must be trapped 
first; and Mascarot is no fool. Danger in 
the air, and Mascarot is nowhere — he has 
vanished, evaporated. I cannot, I fear, 
rely entirely on my associates — Catenae, 
the miser, and Hortebise, the epicurean. 
No; I have kept them out of danger, I 
think. As to Croisenois, he would sooner 
die than betray me. Then there are Beau- 
marchef. La Candele, Toto-Chupin, and 
two or three other poor devils. They 
would be magnificent prizes — prizes to be 
proud of! They could say nothing, for 
the very best of reasons, because they 
know nothing.” And Mascarot laughed 
heartily. Then, with a haughty gesture, 
he adjusted his spectacles, and added : 

“ I shall march straight on to the end I 
have in view. No cannon-ball can be more 
direct. Through Croisenois I shall make, 
at one blow, some four millions. Paul will 
marry Flavia, that is settled; and after 
that, Flavia might be made a duchess, for 
she will have three hundred thousand 
pounds per annum.” 

His squares of paper were by this time 


in order. He then took from a second 
drawer a small book, with an alphabet 
along the cut edges. He opened this vol- 
ume, added two or three names to those 
already there inscribed, and as he clos ed 
it, said, in a tone of menace : 

‘‘You are all there, good people, all; 
and yet you do not suspect it. You are 
rich, all of you — honored, and compara- 
tively happy, for you fiatter yourselves 
for your accountability to no one. But 
you all are egregiously mistaken, my 
friends ; there is one man who owns you 
all, body and soul: and this man is B. 
Mascarot, the head of the bureau in La 
Rue Montorgueil. You hold your heads 
pretty high now, and yet, at his bidding, 
you will crawl to his feet, and dispute for 
the honor of tying his shoe-strings. Now, 
good people. Papa Mascarot has worked 
quite enough, and would like to retire from 
business, and you must help him with some 
amount out of your revenues ! ” 

Some one knocked. He touched the bell 
on his table, and it had hardly ceased to 
vibrate, when Beaumarchef stood on the 
threshold. 

‘‘You asked me, sir,” he said, respect- 
fully, ‘‘ to com])lete the papers in regard 
to young Monsieur Gandelu.” 

‘‘Well, what then?” 

“ Why, sir, it so happens that the cook 
that he has engaged for his little lady is 
on our lists. She owed us eleven francs, 
and came to bring them; she is outside 
now; her name is Marie. Is this not very 
lucky?” 

Mascarot shrugged his shoulders. 

“ You are an idiot,” he said coldly, “ to 
be so pleased and a.stonished at this. I 
have often explained to you that there is 
neither luck nor chance in such matters. 
It is a career and a field for labor like any 
other, only more extended, possibly, and 
can be worked only by adroit hands. Now, 
for twenty years I have sowed crop after 
crop in this field ; it would be strange in- 
deed, I think, if there were never any har- 
vest ! ” 

Beaumarchef listened to his master open- 
mouthed in silent wonder at his astuteness. 

“ Who is this cook?” asked Mascarot. 

“Oh! as soon as you see her, sir, you 
will recognize her. She has been for a 
long time classified under the head ‘ D,’ 
you know — cooks for iDlaces with doubt- 
ful characters.” 

Mascarot seemed to be buried in thought. 
“ Go, bring me this girl,” he said, finally. 
And while^Beaurnarchef obeyed, he added, 
slowly, as if answering some objection in 
his own mind : 

‘‘To neglect the smallest precaution 
were very foolish. Experience has shown 
me this.” 

But the cook of “ Category D” was be- 
fore him. extremely proud of her admis- 
sion to the inner sanctuary. At the first 
glance it was easy to see the determining 


50 


THE SLA VES OF FABIS. 


causes of her classification. It was with 
that unctuous urbanity which had estab- 
lished his reputation throughout Paris that 
Mascarot received her. 

*^Ah! well, my girl,” he said, ‘‘you 
have at last found a place which you like, 
and where your merits will be appreci- 
ated.” 

“I hope so, sir ; but I have only been at 
Madame Gora de Chantemille’s since yes- 
terday at two o’clock.” 

“ Ah! she calls herself Gora de Chante- 
mille, does she? A most euphonious cog- 
nomen, to be sure.” 

•‘You understand, sir, that it is only a 
name that she has taken. She quarreled 
about it, too, with my master. She wished 
to call herself Raphaele, but my master 
insisted on Gora.” 

‘‘Gora is pretty — very pretty,” said 
Mascarot, gravely. 

“ Yes, that is just what her maid and. 1 
told her. She is a very beautiful woman ; 
and my eyes I doesn’t she make the gold 
pieces fiy ! I assure you, sir, that since I 
entered those doors she has spent more 
than thirty thousand francs.” 

“ Impossible! ” 

“But it is true, sir; and all on credit, 
mind you. Monsieur de Gandelu has not a 
sou in the world — so a waiter at Potil’s 
told me — and he knew what he was say- 
ing. But his father, it seems, is rolling in 
wealth. Yesterday, for a house-warming, 
as they called it, they had a dinner — and 
such a dinner ! It cost more than a thou- 
sand francs, with the wines.” 

As Mascarot saw no way of utilizing 
this woman, he was about to dismiss her. 
when she, divining his intention, ex- 
claimed : 

“One moment; I have something to 
say.” 

Mascarot did not expect anything from 
this source ; but he was patient, and had 
learned to hold himself in strong subjec- 
tion. He knew, too, that an ambitious 
man, however far up on the ladder he may 
he, is very short-sighted and unwise when 
he repulses a fellow laborer, however 
trivial may be the assistance he proffers. 
He threw himself back in his chair, and 
assuming an expression of great interest, 
he said : 

Go on, if you please.” 

“ Well,” resumed the cook, “ we had a 
great dinner; eight guests, and madame 
the onlv lady. Ah, sir, what handsome 
men they were, so witty and distinguished, 
and so beautifully dressed — but my mas- 
ter was the best dressed of all.” 

“ Indeed,” drawled Mascarot, lifting his 
eyebrows. 

“ By ten o’clock, they were all pretty 
tipsy. Then, what do you think they did? 
^riiey sent to the concierge, and told him 
that no one must pass through the court, 
as they intended to throw the dinner-ser- 
vice out of the window. And they did it. 


too. Platters and plates, glasses and bot- 
tles, all fiew pell-mell. That is a thing 
that is often done among great people. 
The waiter at Potil's told me that it w^as a 
fashion introduced in Paris by Russian 
princes.” 

Mascarot closed his eyes in despair behind 
his spectacles. The most heroic resignation 
has its limits, and he ventured to say : 

•‘ Go on! ” 

‘‘ Well, sir, among these gentlemen there 
was one who w^as a cloud on the assembly. 
He was tali and dark, badly dressed, and 
with no air whatever. One would have 
really thought that he was laughing in his 
sleeve at all the others. But madame was 
as sweet as honey to him. She offered him 
all the time the greatest delicacies on the 
table. Will you take this? and will you 
take that ? You are not drinking, and so 
on. After dinner, while the others were 
playing cards, he sat down by my mis- 
tress and began to talk with her.” 

“ And could you hear what they said? ” 

“ Of course I could : they were close by 
the door of the bedroom. I stood on the 
other side, and as it was not latched, I 
heard every syllable.” 

“ That was not very honorable,” said 
Mascarot, in a shocked tone. 

“Who cares? I always like to know 
the private affairs of the people I serve. 
They were talking of a gentleman that 
madame knew before, and who was a 
friend of the dark man’s — what was his 
name? ” 

Beaumarchef , who had been in the back- 
ground long enough, thought it was now 
time to show his admirable memory. 
“Paul Violaine,’’ he said. 

“ Precisely,” answered the cook. After 
a moment, she said, in astonishment : 

But how could you know his name? ” 

Mascarot lifted his spectacles to cast on 
his associate a withering glance. “ Beau- 
marchef knows everything,” he replied, 
carelessly. “ That is his business.” 

This explanation was not, perhaps, al- 
together satisfactory to the estimable cook, 
but she resumed her recital. “ Then mad- 
ame said that this Paul was no very great 
thing, that she did not trust him at all, 
that he had stolen twelve thousand francs.” 

Here Mascarot pricked up his ears ; his 
patience was to be rewarded, it seemed, 
after all. 

“ Do you know the name of tliis man to 
whom madame said this? ” 

“No, indeed. The others called him the 
artist only.” 

This vague description was not accepta- 
ble to the lawful and methodical Mascarot. 

“Listen, my girl,” he said, in honeyed 
tones, “ will you do me a great service? 
This man I am inclined to believe is an 
artist who owes me money ” 

“All right! you may rely on me!” 
She then added, hastily: “I must go, for 
I have the breakfast to buy. To-morrow 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


51 


or the day after, you shall have the ad- 
dress.” She left the room. As the door 
closed after her, Mascarot brought his 
hand down heavily on his desk. 

‘"Ilortebise,” he said, ‘’4s wonderful in 
sniffing out a danger. Fortunately, I have 
the means of putting out the candles of 
this foolish woman, this Bose, and of that 
greater fool, the young man who is ruin- 
ing himself for her. They must both be 
suppressed.” 

As before, when the same verb passed 
the lips of his master, the ex-corporal put 
himself on guard. 

‘‘Pshaw! how absurd you are with 
your everlasting gestures,” interrupted 
Mascarot, shrugging his shoulders; '‘I 
can do better than that. Bose calls her- 
self nineteen, but she is more ; she is over 
twenty-one. She consequently is of age. 
Gandelu is still a minor. If old Gandelu 
had a little more nerve, he could be moral 
and funny — both at the same time. Arti- 
cle 354 is elastic I ” 

“What did he say to you, sir?” asked 
Beaumarchef , who understood not one syl- 
lable of all this. 

‘‘Isay that before forty-eight hours 
have passed that I must have the most 
precise details in regard to the character 
and disposition of the elder Gandelu. I 
must, by all means, know precisely his 
relations with his son.” 

“Very well, I will set La Candele on 
the track.” 

“ And as young Gandelu is in search of 
money, you had better bring to his atten- 
tion our honorable friend Verminet, Presi- 
dent of the Mutual Loan Society.” 

“ But that is Monsieur Tantaine’s busi- 
ness, sir.” 

Mascarot was too much preoccupied to 
hear. 

“As to the other,” he continued, in an- 
swer to his own secret fears, “as to the 
tall, dark young man — this artist — I 
fancy that he is more intelligent than 
the rest of that wild set ; but woe betide 
him if he crosses my path. When any- 
body annoys me ” a gesture of terri- 

ble significance finished his half uttered 
sentence. Then, after a moment's silence, 
he adds: ‘‘Beturn to your duties. Beau- 
mar; I hear people coming in.'’ 

The man did not move, definite as was 
his dismissal. 

“Excuse me, sir, La Candele is out 
there, and he will attend to them. I have 
my report to make to you.” 

“Precisely. Take a seat and speak.” 
This condescension, and the pleasure of 
speaking from a chair instead of on his 
feet, seemed to quite enchant Beaumarchef. 

“ Yesterday,” he began, “ there was 
nothing new. This morning before I was 
up, some one rapped at my door. I opened 
it, and found Toto-Chupin.” 

“ He had not given up Caroline Schemel, 
I hope.” 


“Not for a moment, sir. He had even 
succeeded in entering into conversation 
with her ; and they went to a cafe togeth- 
er.” 

“ Good I That was well done.” 

‘‘Oh! he is pretty cunning, that scamp 
Toto ; and if he were but a trifle more 

honest . But that is neither here nor 

there. He pretends that this woman 
drinks, because she talks constantly about 
people who follow her all the time, and who 
threaten her frightfully. She is so afraid 
of being assassinated that she never goes 
out alone. She boards with some honest 
working people, and she pays them well, 
for she has plenty of money.” 

Mascarot seemed much annoyed. “ That 
is bad, for one cannot go in disguise to 
visit this woman, then. But where do 
these good people reside? ” 

‘‘Above Montmartre, higher even than 
Le Chateau Bouge.” 

‘‘Very well, Tantaine will ascertain. 
Be sure that Toto makes no mistake, and 
that he does not let this woman slip 
through his fingers.” 

“ There is no danger. He told me that 
he was now on the way to discover all 
about who she was, if sae had any rela- 
tives, and the source of her money.” 

The ex-corporal i^ulled his waxed mous- 
tache fiercely. This gesture indicated that 
he had a new idea. 

‘‘ What is it now?” asked his master. 

“ It is, sir, simply that I would tell you, 
if I dared, to beware of Toto-Chupin. I 
have discovered that he robs us, and sells 
our goods far below their real value.” 

‘‘Are you dreaming? ” 

‘‘No, sir ; I have had my suspicions for 
some time, and yesterday 1 found out the 
truth from an ill-looking fellow who was 
here to see Chupin, whom he called his 
friend.” 

Men of fortified positions are always 
prompt of decision. 

‘‘Very well,” answered Mascarot; ‘‘I 
will find out the truth, and if you are cor- 
rect, Master Toto will spend some time in 
the House of Correction.” 

This time Beaumarchef withdrew, but 
reappeared almost immediately. 

“Master,” he said, ‘‘here is a servant 
from Monseiur de Croisenois with a letter.” 

Mascarot took no pains to conceal his 
ill-humor. 

“ Send the man here,” he exclaimed, 
with much asperity. 

The new-comer made his appearance; 
irreproachable in garb and deportment, 
and plainly showing that he served in a 
house of the first distinction. There was 
an affectation of an English groom about 
him. A high collar nearly cut off his ears, 
while his smooth, shaven face was ruddy 
enough to painfully suggest a rush of 
blood to the brain. His coat, cut by a Lon- 
don tailor, was as stiff as if carved from 
wood. Of wood, too, he seemed himself, 


52 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


and each movement sug^s^ested some skilful 
mechanism concealed linder his red vest. 
Did he move of his own volition, or were 
there any wheels? ” 

“ My master, sir,” he said, as he ex- 
tended a letter to Mascarot, wished me to 
give this into your own hands.” 

The worthy agent, while he broke the 
seal, examined attentively this model ser- 
vant. He did not know him, for Croise- 
nois would never consent to take a servant 
from this bureau. 

^‘It would seem, my good fellow,” re- 
marked Mascarot leisurely, ^Hhat your 
master, contrary to his usual habits, rose 
with Aurora that morning.” 

The domestic seemed somewhat startled 
by the figure of speech, and replied slowly 
in the e words : 

The mar«iuis agreed to give me fifteen 
louis over and above my wages to gratify 
his fancy of calling me a good fellow. 
No one else has the right to do so.” 

‘‘Ah! ah! ah!” replied the agent, in 
three different tones, each one more ex- 
pressive than the other. “ I wonder,” he 
said to himself, “ whence this idea came. 
If his master wished to call me a good 
fellow, he would neither hesitate nor ask 
my permission.” 

The envoy of Monsieur de Croisenois 
having uttered his little speech, returned 
to the matter in hand. ‘*1 think,” he said sol- 
emnly, that my master is still asleep. He 
wrote the note on his return from the club.” 

“ Is there any reply? ” 

Yes, sir.” 

“ Very well then, wait. And Mascarot 
threw aside the envelope, and read the 
following : 

“ • My Dear Friend — Baccarat has its 
disasters. 1 have played so aboiirnably 
to-night that I have lost, in addition to 
my ready money, three thousand francs 
on my promise to pay. I must have this 
sum before noon to-morrow; my honor de- 
mands it.’ ” 

The agent shrugged his shoulders, and 
muttered loudly enough for the servant, 
who was watching him from the corner of 
his eye, to hear : 

“His honor! Great Heavens! that is 
enough to kill one with laughing. His 
honor, indeed ! ” 

Not a muscle in the face of the well- 
drilled servant quivered. He stood as 
stiffly as a Prussian soldier, seeming nei- 
ther to see nor to hear. Mascarot contin- 
ued to read the note : 

‘“Am I wrong in relying on you for 
this trifle? I think not. I feel certain 
even that you will send me a hundred and 
fifty or two hundred louis in addition, for 
I shall be left without a sou. And o;' the 
great affair — what news? It is with my 
feet on the edge of an abyss that I await 
your decision. 

“ ‘ Yours most devotedly, 

“ ‘ Henri, Marquis de Croisenois.’ i 


“And so,” grumbled Mascarot, “five 
thousand francs have gone to the dogs. 
Pay it, good Mascarot ; open your strong 
box. But, frivolous, wasteful creature, if 
I did not need your fine name, bequeathed 
to you by your ancestors, a name that you 
daily drag\hrough the mire — if I did not 
need your name, I say, you might whistle 
for your five thousand francs.” 

The unfortunate thing was that Croise- 
nois was one of the most important cards 
in the game that the adventurous Mascarot 
was playing. Slowly, and with evident 
reluctance, he took from his strong box 
five notes of a thousand francs each. 

“Do you desire a receipt?” asked the 
servant. 

“ It is of no consequence ; the letter will 
answer every purpose; but wait a mo- 
ment; ” and the agent, that wise person- 
age, ever regardful of future emergencies, 
drew from his pocket a gold piece of 
twenty francs, and, laying it on the table, 
said in his most engaging tone: “Take 
this, my friend, for your trouble! ” 

But the other drew back. “ You will 
excuse me, sir, if I refuse. When I enter 
a gentleman’s service, I ask for wages that 
are high enough for me to feel no necessity 
for presents.” 

After this dignified reply, he bowed, and, 
as solemn as a Quaker, retired with meas- 
ured steps. 

The agent was actually nonplussed. 
Twenty years of singular experiences had 
never furnished him with anything like this. 

“It is absolutely incredible,” he mut- 
tered. “Where the devil did Croisenois 
pick up this fellow? Can it be that the 
marquis is stronger and wiser than I have 
hitherto fancied?” 

An inexplicable anxiety, vague and con- 
fused as a presentiment, disturbed his hab- 
itual assurance. 

"‘Is it possible.” he continued, “that 
this individual is not a real servant? I 
have made so many enemies in the C(‘urse 
of my life that they may come down upon 
me some time like an avalanche. However 
skilfully I hold my cards some may have 
seen my hand.” 

This idea made him tremble. He stood 
just in that position when every new de- 
velopment is a subject for distrust and 
fear. Mascarot had almost grown afraid 
of his shadow, for it is when the end of an 
undertaking is at the distance of the length 
of one's arm that one’s anxiety becomes 
aim )st unbearable. 

“ No, no,” he said, shaking his head, “I 
am a little cracked, and my brain is misty 
with chimerical suspicions. If he had 
found a man who was skilful enough to 
have penetrated my plans, patient enough 
to assume the Croisenois livery to watch 
my movements with greater facility, this 
man would not have been so simple as to 
excite my attention by this singularity of 
manner and deportment.” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


53 


He said all this, but his reasons were as 
little satisfactory to himself, as are the 
notes sung by a coward in the dark to dis- 
sipate his terrors. 

Among all his expedients, among all his 
means of investigation, he found none 
which would show him any way of discov- 
ering anything in regard to this domestic, 
when Beaumarchef appeared once moi e on 
the threshold in a great state of excitement. 

‘‘You here again!” exclaimed Masca- 
rot, harshly. “ 1 wonder if I am to have 
one moment’s peace to-day ! ” 

“Sir, that young fellow is here.” 

“Paul?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“At this hour? I told him to come at 
noon. Something has certainly hap- 
pened ! ” 

He stopped, for at the door which Beau- 
marchef had left partially open, stood 
Paul Violaine. He was pale, and his eyes 
had the peculiar, hunted expression of an 
animal who has been a long time pursued. 
His clothes were unbrushed, and his tum- 
bled appearance told of a night passed in 
aimless wanderings. 

“Ah! sir ” he began. 

With an imperious gesture, Mascarot 
imposed silence. 

“Leave us, Beaumar; and you, my 
child, sit down.” 

Paul seated himself, or rather fell on a 
chair an inert mass. 

“ My life is finished,” he murmured; “I 
am dishonored — lost.” 

The estimable agent looked as bewildered 
as if he had fallen from the clouds. But 
this great stupefaction was feigned. He 
knew, for he had himself prepared the 
events with the care of a dramatist, who, 
from the first act, leads up to the grand 
finale of the last. If he was surprised, it 
was only at the promptness and violence 
of his combinations. With all one’s expe- 
rience, it is sometimes very difficult, when 
one charges a mine, to calculate the results 
with precision. It was, therefare, with the 
air of an amiable and sympathetic listener 
that he drew his chair nearer, and 
said: 

“Be calm, my dear boy; have every 
confidence in me, and open your heart. 
What in the world has happened? ” 

Paul half rose, and in the most tragic 
tone replied : 

“ Rose has deserted me ! ” 

Mascarot raised both arms to heaven. 
“ And was it for this that this insane boy 
said his life was ruined? Do you not 
realize,” he added, turning toward Paul, 
“ that the future is full of promise? ” 

“ I loved Rose, sir.” So full of tragedy 
was his voice that Mascarot was tempteii 
to smile. 

“ But that was not all,” continued the 
poor boy, who made heroic but most useless 
efforts to restrain his tears, “ I am accused 
of an infamous robbery.” 


“You?” asked Mascarot: and at the 
same time added to himself, “ here we have 
it! ” 

“ Yes, sir, I ! and you are the only human 
being who can prove mv innocence, be- 
cause you alone know the truth, and by 
you I can be saved. Yesterday you were 
so very kind to me that I at once thought 
of you, and took the liberty of coming 
earlier than the time you had named to ask 
your aid.” 

“ But what can I do?” 

“ Everything, sir. Let me tell you the 
singular fatality of which I have become 
a victim.” 

Mascarot’s face expressed the liveliest 
interest. “ Go on ! ” he said. 

“Yesterday, sir,” resumed Paul, “a 
short time after leaving you, 1 went back 
to the Hotel du Peron. I ran up to my 
attic room, and on the chimney 1 saw this 
letter from Rose.” 

He extended the letter, but Mascarot 
did not condescend to touch it. 

“ Rose, sir, tells me that she loves me no 
longer, and entreats me never to try and see 
her again. She tells me that,tired of pov- 
erty with me, she accepts a fortun ' that has 
been offered her — diamonds and a car- 
riage.” 

“And that surprises you?” sneered 
Mascarot. 

“Ah! How could I anticipate such in- 
famous treason, when only the evening 
before she cou'.d not find oaths enough in 
which to swear that she loved me? Why 
did she lie ? Did she wish to make the 
shock greater? Gone! Ah, I fell to the 
earth as if felled by a hammer. When I 
went up the stairs I was fancying her joy 
on hearing the recital of your promises to 
me. For more than an hour I remained in 
that room, almost unconscious, absorbed 
in the. bitter thought that 1 should never 
see her again.” 

Mascarot watched Paul carefully, and 
with his usual penetration was at no loss 
in coming to a decision. “ Your words are 
too profuse, my boy, for your grief to be 
very deep or very sincere,” he said to him- 
self, and then aloud he asked : 

“But about the robbery — the accusa- 
tion?” . 

“ In a moment, sir. After awhile I de- 
cided to obey your injunction, and leave 
the Hotel du Peron, with which I was by 
this time more than ever disgusted.” 

“ Naturally.” 

“I went down-stairs to take leave of 
and to pay Madame Loupias, when, sir — 
ah! what shame overwhelms me — as I 
handed her my two weeks’ rent, she looked 
at me with the utmost contempt, and asked 
where I had stolen that money.” 

Mascarot had some difficulty in conceal- 
ing his satisfaction at the success of the 
machination thus announced by Paul. 

“ What did you say?” he asked. 

“Nothing, sir, I was petrified, and my 


54 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


words choked me. Loupias came up and 
stood hy his wife, and both looked at me 
threateningly. After having enjoyed m}^ 
confusion, they declared that they were 
perfectly sure that E-ose and 1 together had 
robbed Monsieur Tantaine.” 

And you made no attempt at denial? ” 

“ I lost my head entirely ; I saw at once 
that everything that had taken place gave 
a color to this idea. The evening before 
Madame Loupias had asked for money 
from Rose, and was told that she had none, 
and had no idea where she was to get any. 
jIiTow you see that on the following day I 
appeared in new clothes and paid my debts, 
while Rose had departed some hours pre- 
viously.” 

‘‘It is not strange that these coinci- 
dences should strike your landlord as very 
singular.” 

The height of our misfortunes was 
that it was at a grocer’s, a certain man by 
the name of Melusin, that Rose changed 
the five hundred franc note lent to us by 
Monsieur Tantaine. It was this suspicious 
fool who started this report about us. He 
even dared to say that a detective had 
called upon him who was detailed to watch 
us,” 

Far better than Paul did Mascarot know 
this story, and just what Melusin had said; 
nevertheless here he interrupted his pro- 
tege. 

‘•I fail to grasp your meaning,” he said, 
“ or to understand the precise occasion of 
your grief — whether it arises from re- 
morse, or indignation. Has there been a 
robbery committed ?” 

“How can I tell? 1 have never seen 
Monsieur Tantaine since that day, and he 
has never returned to the hotel. They say 
he was robbed; that important papers 
have been taken from him, and that conse- 
quently he is lodged in prison.” 

“ Why did you not tell the truth? 

“ What good would it have done? They 
can prove that Monsieur Tantaine was not 
a friend of mine, not even an acquaintance. 
They would have laughed in my face had 
I said : ‘ Last evening he came into my 

room, and then and there presented me 
with five hundred francs.’ ” 

Mascarot looked puzzled, but suddenly 
exclaimed : 

“ Ah ! I have it, and my theory corres- 
ponds entirely with Tantaine’s character.” 

Paul listened as if his life depended on 
every word. 

“Tantaine,” said Mascarot, “is the 
most honest man I know, and has the 
kindest of hearts, but he has cobwebs in 
his brain. He was rich once, but was 
ruined by his generosity. He is as poor as 
Job now, but he has the same longing as 
before to be useful.” 

“But ” 

“Let me finish. The misfortune is that 
in the place where he is 'emplo 3 ^ed, and 
which he owes to me, that he has the 


handling of some small amount of funds. 
Overwhelmed with pit}^ at the sight of 
your despair, he disposed of the property 
of others as he would have done of his 
own. When he came to hand in his ac- 
counts the next evening, fiiiding himself 
face to face with a defied, he lost coufage,^ 
and declared that he had been robbed. 
You were iu the next room to him, you 
were seen with money of which you gave 
no explanations, consequently suspicion 
was excited against you.” 

This was all indisputable. Paul shiv- 
ered, and a cold sweat beaded his brow; 
he saw himself arrested, judged and con- 
demned. 

“But,” he said, “Monsieur Tantaine 
has my note, which is a proof of my good 
faith.” 

"‘Poor child I Do you think that if he 
hoped to save himself by accusing you, 
that he would produce your note? ” 

“ But, fortunately, sir, you know the 
truth. 

Mascarot shook his head sadly. 

“Should I be believed?” he asked. 
“Justice is but a human institution, my 
friend — that is to say, it is subject to error. 
Having to choose between truth and false- 
hood, it can, of course, decide only by ap- 
pearances. Now tell me, are not appear- 
ances against you?” 

The pitiless logic seemed to crush Paul 
to the earth. 

“ 1 have but to die, then,” he murmured, 
“ for I cannot live dishonored.” 

The combination arranged b.y Mascarot 
to ruin Paul Violaine was of almost child- 
ish simplicity, but he had considered it 
sufficient, and he was right, for Paul had 
been so completely carried away by the 
extraordinary loan of the note for five 
hundred francs first, and then by the ac- 
cusation of theft, founded on changing 
this note, that he had no suspicions. Easi- 
ly intimidated, as are all those persons 
who are not quite sure of their ability to 
resist temptation, he began by fleeing be- 
fore the enemy, and now surrendered him- 
self with feet and hands tied together. 
This was precisely the conduct counted on 
by Mascarot. The surgeon who decides 
on a perilous operation, begins by weak- 
ening his patient. Mascarot had followed 
this mode of treatment. Paul lay there 
crushed and exhausted, seeing no other 
issue than suicide out of his many troubles. 

The moment had come to strike th6 last 
blow. 

“ Come, my child,” said Mascarot, “you 
must not despair.” 

No answer. 

Did Paul hear, or was he beyond the 
reach of voices? But Mascarot determined 
that he should both hear and understand. 
He therefore shook him roughly. 

“Wake up!” he cried; “rouse your- 
self I In your position a man helps him- 
j self and brings forward proofs.” 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS, 


55 


“It is no use to struggle I ” sighed 
Paul. “ Have you not just now shown me 
that I could never hope to prove my inno- 
cence?” 

Tliis unmanly weakness made Muscarot 
very impatient, but he dissimulated. 

“No,” he answered, “ no, I have merely 
wished to show you the alarming side of 
your affairs.” 

“ There is but one side.” 

“You are mistaken; I had not finished. 
I may be as easily mistaken. We are only 
supposing that Tantaine himself disposed 
of funds confided to him. Are we sure of 
this? Do we know of his arrest? We 
merely suppose that it is he who has 
thrown all the blame on you. Is this true? 
Before giving up the game in despair 
would it not be as well to be certain ! ” 

As Mascarot spoke, Paul felt himself re- 
vive. “That is true, certainly,” he mur- 
mured. 

‘ ‘ Of course it is ! I have said nothing, 
moreover, of the infiuence I have over 
Tantaine — infiuence that I can use to 
make him confess the truth.” 

Characters like Paul's have the happy 
faculty of grasping at the least ray of 
hope, and are elevated as easily as they 
are depressed. Paul, therefore, who a 
moment before believed himself lost, now 
considered himself rescued. 

“ OhJ ” he exclaimed, “ shall I ever 
prove you my gratitude?” Mascarot’s 
face be^ed with paternal kindness. 

“ Perhaps,” he said, “ perhaps. And as 
a beginning, you must utterly forget the 
past. When daylight comes you drive 
away the bad dreams of the night, do you 
not? I wake you to a new life from this 
hour; make a new man of yourself.” 

Paul sighed. 

“Pose!” he murmured; “I cannot 
forget Pose ! ” 

The worthy agent frowned at this name. 

“ What ! ” he cried. “ Do you still think 
of that creature? There are people, I 
know, who console themselves readily af- 
ter they find out that they have been dupes 
and playthings ; whose love increases, in 
fact, with each new treason. If you are 
built of this facile clay, we shall never un- 
derstand each other. Pun and find your 
pretty, faithless mistress. Throw your- 
self at her feet, and implore her to pardon 
your poverty.” 

Under these lashes Paul straightened 
himself up proudly. 

“ I will be revenged on her one of these 
days.” he said, with eagerness. 

“ That is a very easy thing to do. For- 
get her.” 

In spite of Paul’s tone of determ nation 
a certain hesitation was to be read in his 
eyes — a hesitation which was extremely 
displeasing to Mascarot. 

“ Have you no ambition?” he said. 

“ Yes, sir; I have.” 

“No, sir; you have not, or you would 


never think of embarrassing yourself with 
a woman like Pose. Y ou should keep your 
arms free, my boy, if you wish to make 
any use of your elbows in the melee. 
What would you say of a runner who, 
hoping to gain the prize, had a ball to his 
leg? You would say, of course: ^ He is 
mad I ’ Very well, that is precisely your 
condition.” 

“I will follow yom' advice, sir,” said 
Paul, hastily. 

“I know what I am saying. Believe 
me, the day is not far off When you will 
thank heaven for having inspired Pose 
with the idea and the means of deserting 
you. You can easily climb higher! ” 

For thirty years Mascarot had speculated 
on human passions and weaknesses; he 
understood men thoroughly. In ten words 
more he gained over Paul a decisive in- 
fiuence. 

“Then, sir,” the youth began, “this 

situation at twelve thousand francs salary 
11 

“ There has never been any such situa- 
tion, my friend.” 

Paul turned deadly pale. He saw him- 
self sent away penniless to live in some 
hole like the Hotel du Peron, and this time 
alone. 

“Nevertheless, sir,” he stammered, “you 
allowed me to hope for ” 

“What! twelve thousand francs? Be 
reassured. You shall have that, and more; 
but you will remain with me. I am grow- 
ing old, I have no family, and you shall be 
my son.” 

At this proposition Paul's brow grew 
dark. The idea that his life would be 
passed in this office was revolting to him ; 
the thought of answering the questions 
and inscribing the names of the numerous 
applicants was humiliating to his vanity. 

Mascarot behind his spectacles, read tliis 
impression with perfect ease. “And the 
fool is without bread and butter. Ah ! If 
if it were not for Flavia — if it were not 
for the Champdoce affair ! ” 

Then, aloud, he resumed : “ Do not im- 
agine, my dear child, that I wish to con- 
demn you to the obscure condition in life 
which I myself occupy. By no means ! 
There are other views for you, far more 
worthy of your merits. You please me, 
and I "promise the very great pleasure of 
realizing your ambitious dreams. To carry 
out my plans, you have every requisite, 
save those which are generally lacking in 
young people — prudence and steadiness 
of purpose. Ah, well, I must be prudent 
and sceady for you.” 

He stopped a moment, as if to impart 
additional weight to his words, and then 
added : 

“ I was thinking much of you yesterday, 
and I built in my head the edifice of your 
future. He is poor, I said to myself, and 
this, at his age, with his tastes and ideas, 
is cruel. But why should I not marry 


56 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


him to one of those heiresses who bring a 
million or two in their aprons to the man 
who has touched their hearts? ” 

‘‘Alas! ” 

“ But why, ‘ alas? ’ Do you still think 
of Rose? ” 

“By no means. I merely wished to 
say ” 

‘‘ When I speak to you of heiresses, it is 
because I already know of one, and my 
friend. Dr. Hortebise, would soon make 
you known to her. Rose is pretty, but 
she is nearly as pretty as Rose, and is, be- 
sides, well born, well educated, and clever. 
She has distinguished family connections, 
and if her husband were a man of talent, 
a poet, or composer, he could easily win 
her.” 

Paul’s face flushed. All this he had him- 
self indulged in f ancying, more than once, 
lately. 

“Knowing your illegitimate birth,” con- 
tinued Mascarot, “ 1 wove the most beau- 
tiful romance about you. Before ’93 you 
know that every bastard was regarded as 
a gentleman, and for the good reason that 
he did not know who his father might be. 
AYho can say that yours did not bear .one 
of the grandest names in France, and that 
he is not possessed of untold wealth. 
Perhaps at this very moment he is looking 
for you to give to you his fortune and his 
name. Would you like to be a duke? ” 
Sir,” stammered Paul, sir •” 

Mascarot burst out laughing. “As yet,” 
he sai I, “ we are only talking of supposi- 
tions and wishes.” 

The young man did not know what to 
think. 

“Then, sir,” he asked, “what do you 
wish me to do? ” 

The agent grew very serious. “ I wish, 
and claim absolute obedience,” he said, 
seriously: “an obedience that is prompt 
and unreasoning, that asks no questions 
and makes no comments.” 

“ I will obey you, sir, but I implore you 
not to trifle with me.” 

Instead of making any reply, Mascarot 
rang his bell for Beauraarchef, who 
promptly appeared. “ I leave you alone,” 
he said; “lam going to Van Klopen’s.” 
Then, turning toward Paul, he added : 

“ I never trifle, and to-day you have the 
proof of my assertion. Now, we will go 
to a restaurant to breakfast; I wish to 

talk wi.h jmu, and afterward ” There 

he stopped, the better to epjoy Paul's sur- 
prise, and then added : “ Afterward, I will 
show you the young girl whom I intend 
for you; I am anxious to know if she 
pleases you.*’ 

CHAPTER XI. 

THE TAILLEUR DES DAMES. 

YouN€t Gaston de Gandelu had excel- 
lent reason for his astonishment at finding 
that Andre, a genre painter, should be ig- 


norant of the very existence of Van Klo- 
pen, for the reputation of this extraordi- 
nary person had pervaded all Europe. To 
assure oneself of this, it was only neces- 
sary to glance at his bills, which were dec- 
orated with engravings from medals of all 
nations. One was presented by the Queen 
of Spain; on another were the v/ords 

Founisseur aux Cours du Nord.” Van 
Klopen was not an Alsatian, as said the 
wise Gandelu, who, perhaps, regarded 
Germany as a suburb of Alsace. Van Klo- 
pen was a stout, handsome Hollander. 
AI)out 1850 tills person was a tailor in his 
native town, and cut from cloth purchased 
on credit, the long vests and monumental 
coats which impart such dignity to the 
burgomasters in Rotterdam. Van Klopen 
was not successful, and in short, failed, 
after a time, and was obliged to close his 
shop and abscond from his creditors. He 
took refuge in Paris, where he seemed des- 
tined to die of hunger. 

One morning, on each side of the en- 
trance to superb apartments — apartments 
which rented for two thousand six hun- 
dred francs per annum, in La Rue de 
Grammont, appeared the following sign: 
“Von Klopen, Dressmaker.” 

Then in his handbills, scattered in wild 
profusion, he called himself, “ Regenerator 
of Fashions,” and invented the new title 
of Tailor to the Queen.” 

This idea could never have originated in 
the brain of the stout Hollander. And 
whence came the funds. On this point he 
was silent. 

In fact, at first the enterprise was by no 
means a success. For a month and more, 
Paris held its sides laughing at the bound- 
less pretensions of this ‘‘ Regenerator of 
Fashions.” Van Klopen let them laugh, 
bowing his head under the storm he had 
aroused. He was quite right. His pros- 
pectus brought him two customers, who 
soon sounded the first bugle call of his 
fame. 

One was a very great lady, more adven- 
turous and more eccentric even than she 
was great, the Duchess of Sairmeuse. 
The other was no less distinguished in her 
way, as an illustration of the demi-monde 
— Jenny Fancy, who was then under the 
protection of the Comte de Tremosel, 
and for these two Van Klopen composed 
toilettes which far surpassed anything 
they had ever worn before. From this 
moment his success was assured, more 
than that it was overwhelming, and every 
waiting-maid in Paris sang "his praises. 
To-day Van Klopen's reputation is world- 
wide, and defies all assaults of rivals. It 
soon came to pass that he refused orders 
from certain people. “ I must choose my 
customers,” he said, loftily, and he did 
choose them, weeding out all those whom 
he thought would not add to his reputa- 
tion. 

Therefore, the highest in rank and fullest 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


57 


in purse disputed for the honor of being 
dressed by him. 

The proudest women did not shrink from 
his scrutiny into the mysteries of their 
forms. They confided secrets to him that 
they did not acknowledge to their hus- 
bands. They endured with equanimity 
the touch of his big coarse hands on their 
shoulders as he took their measures. 

It was the fashion I His salons were a 
neutral ground, where women of every 
monde met, jostled, and examined each 

other. Madame la Duchesse de B was 

not at all annoyed at seeing at her side the 
celebrated Beschy, for whom the Baron de 

N had blown out the small amount of 

brains that he had. Perhaps, in employing 
this woman’s work-people,, the duchess 
thought she might hope for some of her 
seductions. 

On her side. Mademoiselle Diamant, 
whose salary at the theatre was, as every- 
body knew, only one hundred crowns per 
annum, felt a delicious joy in crushing, by 
the extravagance of her orders, all the 
grandes dames who looked on in haughty 
silence. 

Between these various customers the 
cunn ng Van Klopen maintained an^qijal 
disposition of his favors. Consequently 
he was the dearest and best of men. How 
many times had he not heard lovely, dis- 
dainful lips say : Kemember, Klopen, if 

I do not have my dress for Tuesday, I 
shall die! ” 

In winter, on the nights of great balls, a 
queue of carriages formed in the afreet in 
front of his establishment. Between nine 
o'clock, and midnight two hundred women 
laid siege to his house, anxious that the 
last pin should be put in by the hand of 
tlie master — eager for his appro vinj? smile. 

He, solemn, cold, impassible, his cigar 
often between his teeth — for to him every- 
thing was permitted^ — ^^saw this brilliant 
array slowly defile past him. He is by no 
means lavish of eulogium. He knows that 
‘‘ very well*’ from his mouth intoxicates 
the aspirant and desolates twenty rivals. 
But he had other and stronger ways of at- 
taching his customers than by the frail 
ties of vanity. When he took orders he 
ofi'ered credit, not only for the making and 
trimmings, but also for the materials them- 
selves. He purchased at wholesale, and 
sold at an enormous profit. Then, too, he 
lent his customers money. 

Consequently, in these days of wild ex- 
penditure, the Tailor for Ladies’' is the 
terror of husbands — honf'st husbands! 
They sleep soundly, admiring the order, 
economy, and good management of their 
wives, and suddenly the phlegmatic Hol- 
lander, with a bill in hi> hand of twenty 
thousand francs, makes his appearance. 

‘‘ What is to be done — except to pay! 
Yes, to pay or go to court, for Van Klopen 
has done that more than once — did he not 
there and then compare the brilliant Mar- 


quise de Revensay to the adventurous 
Clincheter, the actress, you may remem- 
ber, who perished so miserably three 
months ago. Well might husbands and 
fathers recoil before the manoeuvres of this 
usurer in silk and velvet. Woe unto the 
woman who allows herself to be taken in 
the snare of credit which he arranges for 
her. The woman who owes him a thous- 
and crowns is lost, for she can never say 
to what depths of degradation she may be 
compelled to descend to obtain the money 
with which to repay him. What old and 
honorable names there were on his books ! 
Was it surprising that so much prosperity 
should have turned Van Klopen's head? 

He was stout and rosy, impudent, vain, 
and cynical. His fiatterers insisted that he 
was witty. 

To this man, Mascarot and his protege 
went, after a lengthy breakfast at Phil- 
ippe’s. 

Van Klopen’s establishment needs a 
word of mention. Superb carpets, put 
down at his expense, covered the stairs to 
his own door on the first fioor. In the 
ante-room two footmen in* full livery, gor- 
geous in gold lace, were seated. At Mas- 
carot’s entrance they rose, respectfully, 
and one of them hastened to answer the 
question before it was asked. 

Mon.^^ieur Van Klopen is just now en- 
gaged with Madame la Princesse Korasof ,” 
he said : “ but, as he is informed who it is 
that wishes to see him, he will release 
himself. Will you kindly take the trouble 
to go to my master's private room ? ” And 
the man went toward a distant door. 

But Mascarot stopped him. ‘‘We are in 
no haste,” he said; we will wait in the 
salon with his clients. Are there many 
people there?” 

“ About a dozen ladies, sir.” 

“ Very well ! They will amuse me.” 

And without waiting for the footman, 
Mascarot turned the glass hands of a wide 
door and pushed Paul into a larger room, 
which was superbly decorated, gilded and 
ornamented — all, however, in the worst 
possible taste, but distinguished by one ex- 
traordinary feature. 

The paper on ihe wall was nearly cov- 
ered by a prodigious quantity of little 
water-color sketches, representing women 
in every imaginable toilette. Each sketch 
had its inscription, such as : 

‘‘ Costume of Madame C , for a din- 

ner at the Russian Ambassador’s.” 

‘* The Marquise de V , for a ball at 

the Hotel de Ville.” 

“Watering-place costume of Madame 
H deR .” 

“ Confirmation dress of Mademoiselle 
S .” 

It was Van Klopen himself who had im- 
agined this way of bequf^athing his con- 
ceptions to posterity. The magnificence 
of all these surroundings astonished Paul, 
who, somewhat abashed, lingered on the 


58 


THE SLAVES OF PAHIS, 


threshold, hoping to discover a chair where 
he could take refuge. But Mascarot’s 
coolness was enough for both. Seizing 
his protege by his arm^ he drew him to a 
sofa, whispering in his ear : 

Look out ! the heiress is here.’' 

The invasion of this masculine element 
into this feminine sanctuary, where all 
these elegant women patiently awaited the 
good pleasure of their sovereign, was at 
first somewhat startling ; and the impres- 
sion was augmented, moreover, by Paul’s 
extraordinary beauty, which was as timid 
and blushing as that of a young girl’s. 
The buzz of "conversation suddenly ceased, 
and under the fire of twelve pairs of eyes, 
Paul felt his cheeks burn, and began to 
play with his hands, like a peasant before 
a tribunal, and dared not raise his eyes. 

This confusion by no means suited Mas- 
carot. He had brought his protege there 
to see, and he wished him t(} look about 
the room. He himself was bj^ no means 
intimidated by this brilliant cloud. As he 
entered he bowed all around, with the su- 
perannuated graces of a dandy of 1820, and 
now upon his sofa he seemed as much at 
his ease as in his own office, surrounded by 
his corks and bottles. The imperturbable 
assurance of Mascarot was due, it must be 
admitted, to his profound contempt for 
human nature, and still more to his spec- 
tacles. If people only knew of what use 
these colored glasses are in the' conceal- 
ment of their emotions, the entire universe 
would equip themselves in blue glasses. 
This most considerate of persons, Masca- 
rot, wished to give his protege a few min- 
utes to recover himself, and to become 
accustomed to the warm, perfumed atmos- 
phere of the salon. Finally, seeing that 
Paul still kept his ej^es cast down, he 
touched him lightly on the arm. 

Is this the first time,” he whispered, 
“ that you ever saw ladies in grand toilette 

— are you afraid of them? ” 

Paul made an effort to show a bold front. 

‘‘Look to the right,” continued Masca- 
rot. Between the window and the piano 

— there she is ! ” 

Near the window, with her maid stand- 
ing by her side, sat a young girl apparently 
not more than eighteen. She was not, per- 
haps, as pretty as Mascarot had said, but 
there was something very striking in her 
face — a singular expression that struck 
an observer at the first glance. She was 
small, and very delicate in appearance, 
clear and dark in coloring. Her features 
were lacking in regularity, but her glossy 
black hair literally sparkled with light; 
lier eyes, dark and purplish in hue, were 
full of tenderness. Her lips were like 
slender scarlet threads, and her broad fore- 
head told of her intelligence. All about her 
breathed of passion ; or rather, she seemed 
the incarnation of passion itself. 

Paul felt his eyes irresistibly drawn to 
the corner of the room where she sat. 


Their eyes met, and both started at the 
same moment as if they h id received a 
shock from the same electric battery. 
Paul was motionless, transfixed and fasci- 
nated. As to the young girl, so violent 
was her emotion that she turned away sud- 
denly, fearing to be remarked. But no 

0 e noticed her. 

he babble of tongues had begun again, 
and all the customers of the celebrated 
Van Klopen were listening with admiraticn 
to a lady who was describing, in the most 
affected manner one of the last toilettes 
in the Bois. 

“It was wonderful!” she said; “and 
only Van Klopen could have created any- 
thing so exquisite. All those women in 
those open Victorias were simply furious. 

1 hear from the Marquis de Croisenois that 

Jenny Fancy absolutely wept with rage. 
Just imagine three green skirts of different 
shades, each of them cut and looped ” 

But the excellent Mascarot cared little 
for this description. He had watched these 
young people, and a smile curled his 
withered lips. 

“ Well? ” he said to his protege. 

Paul could hardly restrain himself, as he 
murmured, ‘‘ she is adorable! ” 

“ And a millionaire.” 

“If she had not a penny, any man might 
fall down and worship her! ” 

Mascarot coughed slightly, and arranged 
his spectacles. 

“Now,” he thought, “I have you, my 
boy! Whether your emotion be feigned 
or real — whether you adore the girl or 
her dowry — is all the same to me. You 
will be governed by me.” 

Upon this paternal refiection, he bowed 
again to his protege. 

“ Have you no desire to hear her name? ” 

“ Tell me, I beg you.” 

“Flavia!” 4, 

Paul was in ec^tacies ; he had the requisite 
courage to look at the girl deliberately ; 
she had turned away, and he thought, for- 
getting the numerous refiections in the 
various mirrors, that she could not see 
him. 

The lady went rambling on. 

“ I am so sorry for the poor Comtesse de 
Saxe, who is an absolute angel. Yes, 
ladies, she ironed her dresses, and sent 
them to be dyed and economized in ever}' 
way ; and all the time her husband was 
squandering money on an actress. When 
she heard of it she nearly died of grief, 
and I swore to myself that if my husband 
was ever wired, that it should be by me 

and not by any other ” she interrupted 

herself here. 

The door was thrown noisily open and 
Von Klopen appeared in all his glory. He 
was only five feet four, and was too large 
for his height. His red face was covered 
with pimples, caused by drinking too 
much; the expression of his countenance 
\\ as thoroughly insolent ; and he spoke in 


THE SLAVES OF PAJ^IS. 


59 


the pure accents and euphonious tones of 
Rotterdam. He wore his ordinary cos- 
tume, a dressing-gown of garnet-colored 
velvet with culfs, and a cravat of lace. An 
enormous diamond glittered on his hand. 

‘‘ Whose turn is it? ” he said, abruptly. 

It was the turn of the talkative lady. 
She was rising when the tailor stopped her 
peremptorily. He had just caught a 
glmpse of Mascarot, and hastened to greet 
him with marked cordiality. 

‘‘Is it you.” he exclaimed, “whom I 
have so long kept waiting? excuse me I 
beg of you.” 

There was a faint murmur around the 
room. 

“Go into my cabinet, I beg of you,” 
continued Van Klopen. “ Ahl this" gen- 
tleman is with you! Very well. Goon, 
^ntlemen. Go "on.” 

He dragged away, as he spoke, Mascarot 
and Paul, or rather he drove them before 
him. He was about to accompany them 
without making any excuse, when one of 
the ladies started forward and almost 
pushed him into the corridor, closing the 
door after her. 

“ One word, sir,” she said; “ one word 
in the name of heaven!” 

Van Klopen coughedwith an enraged air. 

“ What is it now? ” he asked, impatient- 
ly- 

“ Only, si]*, that to-morrow my note of 
3,000 francs is due.” 

“Very possibly.” 

“ And 1 have no money to meet it ! ” 

“Nor have I.” - 

“ I have come to entreat you to renew 
it for two months, sir, only two months. 
One month even, on whatever conditions 
you may choose.” 

The tailor shrugged his shoulder. “In 
two months.” he said, “ you will be no 
better able to pay than to-day. If the note 
is not paid to-morrow it will be protested.” 

“ Good heavens ! And then my husband 
will know !” 

“ Precisely. I wish him to know, for it 
is to him that I must then look for my 
(payment ! ” 

The unhappy woman turned deadly pale 
with terror. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ my husband will pay ; 
'but I am ruined.” 

“ I cannot help it. I have partners who 
insist.” 

“ Ah ! do not tell me that, sir, I implore 
you. Save me. My husband has paid my 
debts once, and he swore then that he 
would never do it again. And I have chil- 
dren, sir. He is quite capable of taking 
them away from me. For pity’s sake, dear 
Mr. Van Klopen ” 

She wrung her hands and sobbed. She 
was almost on her knees. The tailor stood 
as unmoved as if he had been made of 
ice. 

“When a woman is the mother of a 
family,” he «aid, coldly: “she had best 


take a dressmaker by the day. There are 
some who really make charming dresses.” 

She still tried to move him. She snatched 
his hands and seemed ready to press them 
to her lips. 

“ If you only knew,” she sobbed. “I 
sha 1 never dare to go home. I shall never 
have the courage to Dell my husband.” 

Van Klopen gave an insolent laugh. 

“ Ah! well,” he said, “ if you are afraid 
of your own husband, try some other wo- 
man's ! ” and disengaging himself roughly, 
he left the unhappy woman in the corridor, 
and went into his cabinet where Paul and 
Mascarot were waiting for him. 

He was considerably out of tamper, this 
arbiter of fashion. The proof of which 
was that he closed the door of his cabinet 
with a violence very far from his charac- 
ter and his habits. Conscious power is 
calm and serene. 

“ Have you heard,” he said to Mascarot, 
“ this most pitiable conversation. Such 
things occur every now and then, and are 
by no means agreeable.” 

He stopped, looked at his hand curiously, 
and dried it with his lace-bordered hand- 
kerchief, as he said, with a mock laugh : 

“I believe she cried real tears on this 
hand.” 

Paul looked on in disgust. The first im- 
pulses of his heart were still good. If he 
had been the happy owner of three thous- 
and francs, he would have taken them to 
this poor woman, whose sobs he still heard 
in the corridor. 

“ It is frightful ! ” he said. 

This exclamation seemed to scandalize 
the tailor, who answered, in a tone of des- 
pair : 

“ My dear sir, you attach too much im- 
portance to these" attacks of the nerves. If 
you were in my place, you would soon 
learn what they amount to. It is my 
money, and that of my associates, after 
all, which I am called upon to defend. 
You do not know that all these pretty 
creatures whom I dress are eaten up with 
vanity, and care for nothing but their 
toilettes. Father, mother and husband — 
they would give them all, with their chil- 
dren thrown in, to open an account with 
us. You can never know of what a woman 
is capable in order to procure a new dress, 
with which to crush her rival. It is only 
when the day of settlement comes that they 
think or talk of their families.” 

“ Yes ; but you know that with this lady 
you run no risk. Her husband ” 

“Ah! yes; her husband,” cried Van 
Klopen, warming up in the discussion. 
“ Husbands amuse me very much ! If you 
happen to see them when you go with pat- 
terns to their houses, they are very civil, 
for they like fine clothes worn in their 
honor. But when the bill is presented, it 
is quite another matter. They roll their 
eyes and talk of pitching you out of the 
I window.” 


60 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS, 


With the best faith in the world, Paul 
went on pleading the cause of the poor 
woman outside. 

Put husbands are often deceived,” he 
said. 

‘•"Very true ; but they have no business to 
be. But, no, it is more convenient to pre- 
tend to be ignorant. When they have 
given a hundred louis per month, they 
look upon themselves as free ; and expect 
to see a dozen or more of gorgeous toil- 
ettes. if they do not bid their wives buy 
on credit, where do they think they get 
their money? No, indeed, they know 
what they are about. Madame begins by 
opening an account, and monsieur after- 
wards disputes the bill, and insists on a 
reduction. I know this game.” 

The tailor seemed so angry that Masca- 
rot concluded that his intervention was 
advisable. 

" 1 feel that you have been a little hard I” 
he said. 

Van Klopen gave him a look of intelli- 
gence. 

‘‘Pshaw,” he replied, “to-morrow I 
shall be paid, I know very well, and by 
whom. Then I shall receive another order, 
and the whole farce will be acted over 
again. I have had my own reasons for 
what I have done.” 

These reasons were perhaps not just 
those which would bear the light of day, 
for he dared not utter them aloud, but 
drew Mascarot to the recess of a window, 
and there the two talked in low voices, 
laughing heartily at intervals, as if at 
some capital joke. Not wishing to catch a 
stray word, Paul examined the consulting 
room, as Van Klopen called it. 

He saw no writing materials, but innu- 
merable scissors, yard sticks, and meas- 
ures — quantities of samples of stuffs — and 
piles of fashion plates ; and at the extreme 
end of the room six forms were clothed in 
paper patterns — patterns of the newest 
creations of this master mind. Paul had 
examined the last of these when the two 
friends, as he supposed them to be, re- 
turned to the fireside. 

“We are losing our time,” said Masca- 
rot. I intended to glance over our books, 
but there are too many persons waiting 
for you in the salon.” 

“ And that prevents you? ” returned the 
tailor, carelessly; ” wait a moment.” 

lie disappeared, and almost immediately 
his voice was heard. 

“ 1 am very sorry, ladies,” he said, 
“very sorry, on my honor; but I am much 
occupied with a silk merchant. You un- 
derstand that it is all in your interest, and 
I shall not be very long.” 

“We will wait,” interrupted the patient 
chorus. 

Van Klopen reappeared, quite pleased. 

“ Those women are not so bad, after all,” 
he said. They would remain here all 
night to wait for their little Klopen. Poor 


little fools! You may run after them 
with civilities, and they will run faster 
than you. But if, on the contrary, you 
laugh at them and insult them, they will 
worship you. If ever the fashionable 
world desires me, I shall shut my shop, 
and put over the door: ‘* No entrance for 
any one,” and the next day the crowd will 
besiege my doors.” 

Mascarot nodded approval, while the 
tailor drew from an escritoire a huge 
volume. 

‘"Business has never been better,” re- 
sumed Van Klopen. “In the last nine 
days we have had orders amounting to 
87^000 francs.” 

“That is good; but let us look at the 
doubtful page, I am hurried.” 

The glass of fashion turned over the 
leaves. 

“Here we are,” he said: “ since Febru- 
ary I4th. Mademoiselle Vagine Cluche has 
ordered five toilettes for the evening and 
the theatre, tvvo dominoes, and three visit- 
ing costumes.” 

•• That is a great deal ! ” 

“That is why I wish to consult you. 
She owes only a comparative trifle — a 
thousand francs or so.” 

“ That is too much, if, as I hear, her 
protector is ruined. Do not refuse, but 
avoid taking any new orders.” 

Van Klopen inscribed several cabalistic 
letters on the margin of his book. 

“ On the 6th of the same month the 
Comtesse de Mussidan sends an important 
order — important for herself, I mean — a 
perfectly plain dress for her daughter. 
Her account has become very heavy ; the 
count does not pay ; in fact, he warned me 
that he could not.” 

“No matter, go on. You may even 
press for payment.” 

Another marginal note. 

‘‘ On the 7th a new client opened an ac- 
count. Mademoiselle Flavia Martin Begal, 
the daughter of the banker.” 

At this name Paul started; his friend 
did not seem to notice it, however. 

“ My dear sir,” said Mascarot, “ guard 
this lady well, no matter what this young 
girl asks — even if it be your whole house 
— grant at once ; and, remember, the most 
absolute deference. The least levity of 
manner will be fatal. She is now in the 
salon ; let her come here as soon as we 
have gone. 

B}^ the look of astonishment in the 
tailor’s face, Paul saw that Mascaroc was 
not given to this kind of recommenda- 
tion. 

‘* You shall be obeyed, sir,” answered 
Van Klopen. 

“ On the 8th, a young gentleman named 
Gaston de Gandelu, was presented here by 
Monsieur Lupu, the jeweler. His father 
is very rich, it is said, and he should receive 
beside, a considerable sum when he reaches 
his majority, which is very soon now. 


THE /SLAVES OF FABIS, 


61 


This young man asks a credit of fifteen or 
twenty thousand francs for a lady. 

The agent dissimulated a smile, while 
through his spectacles he watched his 
protege. Paul did not start ; this name of 
Gandelu told him nothing. 

The lad}^” continued the tailor, “ came 
in person. She calls herself Gora de 
Chantemille. The fact is she is outrage- 
ously pretty.” 

Mascarot thought for a few moments. 

‘‘You will never imagine,” he said. 

How that young man weighs upon me. I 
would give a great deal to find some way 
of getting him out of Paris.” 

Van Klopen’s face became deeply suf- 
fused. The least eftort at reflection, send- 
ing his blood to his brain, produced that 
eflect. 

‘ • Ah ! ” said he, striking his brow, that 
is easily settled. This Gandelu is capable 
of any idiocy for the sake of that big 
blonde.” 

“ So T think.” 

Then it is all fair s filing. I will open 
a little account with him. He will give 
an order. I cut and I experiment, and 
then, just as 1 deliver the goods.I will pre- 
tend to be somewhat doubtful, and will 
ask for a note that 1 will swear to having 
no intention of negotiating, with two sig- 
natures, you understand. Thus we will 
put the youth in communication with our 
Mutual Loan Society ; and our good friend, 
Vermenet, will easily persuade him to 
write a name on the bottom of a piece of 
paper. He brings it to me: 1 accept it, 
and we have him safe ! ” 

“ It is not quite what I would select.” 

“ 1 see no other way, however.” He 
stopped speaking, for in the ante-room 
was an unusual commotion, and the sound 
of voices raise 1 in contention. 

The impassible Van Klopen rose some- 
what excited, and listened for a moment. 

should extremely like to know,” he 
said, who this impudent fellow is who 
is making a scene here. It is of course 
some preposterous husband.” 

If all husbands hated and feared this 
“ Tailor to a dozen Queens,” the tailor re- 
turned the compliment, for they were the 
bugbears of his existence. If heed had 
been paid to his views, the institution 
would have been at once abolished. 

“ Go and see what it is,” advised Mas- 
carot. 

I ! What ! Commit myself with I know 
not whom ! Risk a hurricane of reproaches 
and insults! I am not quite so silly. I 
pay my servants to take all such annoy- 
ances off my shoulders.” 

This was most wise and prudent. 

The noise decreased. The doors of the 
salon were opened and shut, then all was 
still. 

Now let us return to our own affairs,” 
resumed the amiable Mascarot. “ Your 
proposition seems to me advisable under 


all the circumstances. A little forgeiy is 
a pistol always loaded.” 

Hei-e he left his chair and walked with 
Van Klopen to the other end of the room. 
After all that had been said aloud, what 
could there be worse to whisper in secret? 

From the begi ning of this conversation, 
Paul had become paler and paler. Igno- 
rant as he was of life, he could not fail to 
comprehend something of what he had 
heard. A ready at Piiilippe's, during break- 
fast, Mascarot had allowed him to see that 
strange things were going on about him; 
and since then, he had been still further 
enlightened. 

It was evident to him that this man, 
whose protection he had so singularly ac- 
cepted, was engaged in some dark and 
di graceful intrigue. All his acts and his 
words had only one meaning, and tended 
to some mysterious end. Analyzing all 
that he had seen, heard, or surmised, Paul 
guessed, or rather instinctively felt, that 
he was stepping on a train of gunpowder 
patiently and carefully laid. He vaguely 
realized that there was some inexpficable 
connection between this Caroline Scheinel, 
that was under such strict waich, and this 
Marquis de Croisenois. at once so hauglity 
and so humble; and this Countess de Mus- 
sidan, that was driven on down the path 
to destruction, and Flavia, this rich heir- 
ess, whose hand was held out as a rich 
prize ; and this Gaston de Gandelu. who 
was to be induced to commit a crime, the 
consequence of which would be the galley . 

And was he, Paul, to be a mere instru- 
ment in such hands? Toward what abyss 
and through what mire was he to be led? 
This obscure agent and this distinguished 
tailor were not two friends, as he supposed, 
but two accomplices. He began to see 
through what impure sources Mascarot 
gained his power, and Paul felt himself 
like wax in the hands of this despot. Too 
late did ho grasp all the evidences of a 
plot between him and Tantaine. Too late, 
indeed. Had he not, while absolutely in- 
nocent, been accused of a theft? When 
he was entirely without distrust, Mascarot 
had bound him hand and foot, with that 
marvelous cunning of those huge spiders 
in the forest who surprise the birds asleep 
on those branches, and weave over them 
their webs without awakening them. Could 
he struggle with any chance of success? 
No; at the least effort to break this fat il 
net ne would be ground to dust. This 
conviction filled him with dread ; but he 
felt no horror of the crime itself, for it 
was only too true that all the bad instincts 
and passions, hitherto lying dormant with- 
in him, were now all fermenting like gar- 
bage under the hot rays of a mid-day sun. 

He was still dazzled by the splendid 
hopes held before his eyes by the tempter. 
He remembered that he had been told that 
his father was a great lord. He said to 
himself, that a man like Mascarot, of 


62 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


boundless power, setting at scorn all laws 
and prejudices, strong and patient withal, 
would run any risks to achieve his ends. 

“ What danger should I incur then,” 
said Paul to himself, if I abandoned my- 
self without a struggle to the torrent which 
has already swept me away? None What- 
ever, for Mascarot is strong enough to 
keep my head, as well as his own, above 
water. 

Paul had no idea that each fleeting emo- 
tion that swept over his mobile counte- 
nance, was caught and carefully analyzed 
by the astute Mascarot. It was by no ac- 
cident that he had allowed this infamous 
conversation to take place in the presence 
of his protege ; he had decided that morn- 
ing, that if he was to make Paul of any 
use, that his timid nature must be brought 
at once face to face with these atrocious 
combinations. He had often noticed that 
the most subtile theories do not demoralize 
so quickly as the broad facts stated abrupt- 
ly. He read in the wavering of Paul’s 
eyes his willingness to yield, and it was 
with the absolute certainty of his influence, 
that he resumed his conversation with the 
tailor. 

"^ Now,” he said, for the postscript — 
the serious part of my visit. Where do we 
stand now, with the Vicomtesse de Bois 
d'Ardon? ” 

Van Klopen shrugged his shoulders. 

Well enough! ” he answered. ‘‘ I have 
just sent her a quantity of the most extrav- 
agant toilettes.” 

What does she owe? ” 

‘‘ About twenty-flve thousand francs. 
She has owed us much more.” 

Mascarot took off his spectacles in a 
rage. 

"’Upon my word,” he said, that is a 
most calumniated woman. She is light, 
frivolous, and coquettish, but nothing 
more. For a fortnight I have been dili- 
gently seeking information in regard to 
her, and I cannot lay my finger on the 
smallest venial sin which can give us a 
hold on her. Fortunately, the debt does 
that to a certain extent. Does her hus- 
band know that she has an account with 
us? ” 

“He! Of course not! He gives his 
wife any amount of money. And if he 
imagined ” 

“ Very well, then, that is all right; we 
will first send him the bill.” 

“ But, my dear sir,” urged Van Klopen, 
in astonishment, “she paid us last week a 
large sum on account ! ” 

“All the greater reason for activity at 
once ; she must be low in funds ! ” 

The glass of fashion had a thousand ob- 
jections ready to bring forward, but an im- 
perious gesture from Mascarot closed his 
lips. 

“ Listen to me,” said the agent, haughti- 
ly. “ Remember what I say, and do me 
the favor to dispense with all remarks.” 


Van Klopen had lost all the arrogance 
which he maintained toward his fair cus- 
tomers. 

“ Are you known by the servants at the 
Bois d’Ardon mansion? ” ^ 

“ Not in the least.” 

“ Very well, then ; the day after to-mor- 
row, precisely at three o’clock, neither 
earlier nor later, you will call upon the 
vicomtesse. Her‘ people will say that 
madame is engaged with a visitor.” 

“I will wait, then.” 

“ By no means. You will insist on see- 
ing the lady at once, and you will And the 
vicomtesse in conversation with the Mar- 
quis de Croisenois. You know him, I sup- 
pose? ” 

“ Only by sight.” 

“ That is enough. Do not trouble your- 
self about him, but draw your bill from 
your pocket and, as roughly as possible, 
you will insist on immediate payment.” 

“ What on earth are you thinking of? 
The vicomtesse will order me to be thrown 
out of the window.” 

That is quite possible. But you must, 
nevertheless, threaten to carry your bill 
to her husband. She will order you to 
leave the house, but instead of obeying 
this order you will seat yourself inso- 
lently, and declare that you will not leave 
without the money.” 

“ But that is atrocious conduct.” 

“ I quite agree with jmu. But the Mar- 
quis de Croisenois will put an end to the 
scene. He will throw a pocket-book in 
your face, and say: ‘pay yourself, 
scoundrel ! ’ ” 

“ And then I am to slink off ?” 

“ Yes — but having armed yourself pre- 
viously with a well-sharpened pencil, you 
will give a receipt in this form : 

‘‘ ^ Received of the Marquis de Croise- 
nois, so much, in payment of the bill of. 
madame, etc.’ ” 

Never was there a man so bewildered, 
so humiliated and disturbed, as was this 
all-powerful Van Klopen. 

“If I could only understand,” he mur- 
mured. 

“ That is of no consequence now — obe- 
dience is the essential point.” 

“ I will obey, of course; but you under- 
stand that we shall lose, not only the cus- 
tom of the vicomtesse, but also that of all 
her friends.” 

Van Klopen was about to speak, when 
the same loud talking, which a short time 
before had been heard in the corridor, 
again broke the silence. 

“It is outrageous!” cried some one. 
“ I have been waiting an hour ! Where is 
my sword? What, ho! lacqueys, come 
hither ! V an Klopen engaged, is ' he ? Go 
and tell him that I must see him at 
once.” 

These exclamations dissipated as by en- 
chantment, the clouds that darkened the 
brows of the two accomplices. They ex- 


THE SLA VES OF PABIS. 


63 


changed a look, as if they recognized this 
sharp, falsetto voice. 

"‘It is he!” whispered Mascarot. At 
the same moment the door was loudly 
opened, anc^in burst young Gaston de 
Gandolu. 

He wore, on this especial day, a coat 
• shorter even than usual, pantaloons tighter, 
and brighter in color, a higher shirt-col- 
lar, and a more startling tie. His face was 
red. and swollen u ith anger. 

“It is I! ” he ex laimed. “And I am 
very angry, for I have been kept waiting 
fully twenty minutes, and I do not care a 
snap for the rules of the house.” 

The tailor was boiling with rage at this 
intrusion, but as Mascarot was present, 
who had given him orders to treat young 
de Gandelu wdth perfe^et courtesy, he ex- 
erted superhuman control over himself. 

"‘Believe me, sir,” he grumbled, “that 
had 1 known ” 

The few w^ords delighted the brilliant 
youth who interrupted him. 

“ I accept your excuses,” he said. “ Bid 
them carry aw^ay the swords; the jest is 
over. My horses are standing at your 
door, and they probably have taken cold. 
You know my horses, I think! Magnifi- 
cent creatures are they not? Gora is in 
the salon ! I wall bring her. 

He ran into the corridor. “ Gora! Mad- 
ame de Chantemille ! Dear vicomtesse ! ” 

The great tailor seemed about as much 
at his ease as a man on red-hot coals. 
What a disgrace to his house ! He cast a 
despairing glance at Mascarot, who, stand- 
ing near the door which opened on the sa- 
lon, had a face as impassible as stone. 

As to Paul, he w^as inclined to take this 
young gentleman w^hose carriage was wait- 
ing at the door, for a finished ex »mple of 
the graces and culture of the world of 
fashion. But his heart ached, as he 
thought of what was to happen to this 
interesting being. 

He crossed the room to Mascarot. “ Is 
there no way,” he whispered, “ of sparing 
this poor fe.low?” 

Mascarot smiled one of those pallid 
smiles which always sent a co’d chill 
to the hearts of those who knew him and 
his ways. 

“Before a quarter of an hour has 
elapsed,” he said, “ I will address you this 
same question, leaving you to decide as 
you please ! ” 

“In that case ” 

“ Hush ! This is your first real test. 
If you are not as strong a man as I be- 
lieved — good-bye. Stand steady ; a thun- 
derbolt is about to pass over your head ! ” 

These words were trivial enough — thej?' 
might mean much or little; but the tone 
was so expressive that Paul was startled, 
and gathered himself together. Prepared 
I as he thus was, he with d.fficulty stifled 
the exclamation of surprise and rage at 
the sight of the woman w^ho now en- 


tered the room. The vicomtesse — the 
Gora of young Gandelu — was his Rose; 
in a toilette which, if purchased ready 
made, was none the less dazzling. 

Evidently she was very ready to adopt 
suggestions and to go any length advised 
by her intelligent lover. Asli proof of 
this, she wore an eye-glass that seemed to 
annoy her vastly. She was also somewhat 
intimidated as she came in, almost dragged 
by Gandelu. 

“ How absurd! ” he cried. “ What are 
you afraid of? Come on! He is only an- 
gry that we have been kept waiting by his 
lacqueys.” 

Gora Rose sank languidly into an arm- 
chair, and the interesting youth turned 
toward the celebrated Van Klopen. 

“Well!” he said, “have you decided 
on a toilette that will do justice to mad- 
ame’s beauty?” 

Van Klopen did not at once reply. A 
light frown contracted his brow, and his 
eyes were fixed on vacancy with the ex- 
pression of the Pythoness, who, seated on 
the tripod, awaited inspiration. 

“ I have.it ! ” he cried, waving his hand 
majestically ; “I see it before me ! ” 

“Ah!” said Gaston, much impressed, 
“ what a man! ” 

“ Listen,” continued the tailor, whose 
eyes sparkled with the fire of. creative 
genius : “ walking costume, a polonaise, 
with a cape a la passionnaine ; waist, 
sleeves, and underskirt of bright cliestnut ; 
overdress, Cheveux de la Beine^ with puff- 
ings, and the dress drawn up with bows.” 

He might have continued to speak for an 
hour. Gora Rose heard not one word: 
she had just caught sight of Paul, and in 
spite of her new born audacity her terror 
was so great that she nearly fainted. 
How could Paul preserve his calmness of 
demeanor when she, who knew him so 
well, read in his eyes the most savage 
threats. 

Her indisposition was so evident that 
finally young Gandelu perceived it. But, 
not knowing Paul, indeed, hardly noticing 
his presence in the apartment, and not 
especially quick-witted, he was entirely 
deceived as to the cause. 

“Stop!” he exclaimed; “stop! Van 
Klopen, she is overcome by joy. I am 
ready to bet you ten louis that she is about 
to have an attack of the nerves ! ” 

During this scene Mascarot had kept his 
protege well in sight. Seeing him all 
primed for an explosion, he deemed it best 
to put an end to the scene, that was both 
absurd and unwise. 

“ I have you,” he said, turning to Van 
Klopen; “do not forget our agreement. 
Good-morning, madame.” 

“ Good-morning, sir.” 

Knowing how to leave the house with- 
out passing through the salon, he took 
Paul’s arm and dragged him away : it was 
quite time that he did so. Not until they 


64 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


were on the stairs, out of reach of all 
listeners, did the honorable Mascarot 
breathe freely. 

What do you think now? ” he asked. 

So painful had been the restraint im- 
posed by Paul upon himself, so great had 
been his agony of wounded vanity, that 
his teeth were ground together, and he 
literally could not open them nor make 
any reply other than a groan. 

Ah ! ” thought Mascarot, “ he takes it 
harder than I thought. No matter I The 
fresh air will bring him up again.” 

This was not the case, however, and on 
reaching the street Paul felt his limbs 
bend under him, and he was obliged to 
lean against the door-way. Mascarot was 
in despair, but remembering a little cafe 
close at hand, he said : 

“Lean on me — we will call for some- 
thing in here, and linger until you have 
recovered your equilibrium.” 

The two took their seats in the narrow 
shop, where they were alone. In ten min- 
utes after taking a couple of glasses of rum 
Paul lost his pallor and fixed expression. 

“You are better? ” asked Mascarot ; and 
then, believing it best to strike while the 
iron was hot, and that it was advisable to 
finish his man, now that he had stunned 
him, he continued, “ A quarter of an hour 
ago,” he said, “ I promised to remind you 
of our intentions in favor of Monsieur de 
Gandelu.” 

“ Enough I ” interrupted Paul, with vio- 
lence, “ enough I ” 

Mascarot smiled with paternal benevo- 
lence. 

“You see,” he said, “what different 
views we take of things, according to the 
position in which we stand. Now you are 
beginning to be reasonable.” 

“ Yes, I am reasonable — that is to say, 
that I mean to be rich also. There is no 
necessity now for you to urge me, I am 
ready to do precisely as you wish. I will 
never again submit to a humiliation like 
that of to-day.” 

Mascarot shrugged his shoulders. 

“ You are angry,” he said. 

“ My anger will pass away, but my in- 
tentions will remain the same.” 

As fast as Paul advanced, just as rapidly 
did the agent retreat. This was the plan 
decided upon. 

“Do not decide without mature deliber- 
ation,” he said; “ you are still your own 
master ; to-morrow, if you abandon your- 
self to me, you must resign your dearly 
loved liberty.” 

“ I am ready for anything.” 

The agent had won the day, and was 
triumphant accordingly. 

“Very well,” he said, coldly, “Dr. 
Hortebise will present you to Monsieur 
Martin Rigal, the father of Mademoiselle 
Flavia, and I, one week after your mar- 
riage, will give you a duke’s coat-of-arms 
to paint on your carriages.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

A MOMENTOUS INTERVIEW. 

When she said to Andre that she would 
throw herself on the generoiity of M. de 
Breulh-Faverlay, Sabine de Mussidan had 
consulted the dictates of her heart rather 
than of her strength. She recognized this 
fact, when in solitude she asked herself 
how she could keep this promise. 

Her whole nature revolted at the idea 
that she must ask for a rendezvous with 
any gentleman, and that he would have 
the right to read to the very bottom of her 
soul. A stranger would have been less 
startling to her than was Monsieur de 
Breulh. He seemed to her, for the sole 
reason that he had asked her hand, to have 
acquired certain rights over even her very 
thoughts. All the way home in the cab 
with her devoted Modeste, Sabine never 
opened her lips. Dinner had just been 
announced when she entered her father’s 
house, and never was there a more dismal 
dinner table. While the most cruel anxie- 
ties tortured the young girl, the count 
and countess were silently weighed down 
by the threats of Dr. Hortebise, and the 
honorable Mascarot. 

Around them in the magnificent dining- 
room the servants went to and fro, fulfill- 
ing their duties with that air of devotion 
which was a part of th«n. What to them 
was the sadness of their masters, and what 
did they care? Were they not well fed, 
well lodged and regularly paid? They 
cared for little else ; the superb and well 
appointed establishment was really theirs. 
How many houses there are in Paris where 
the masters seem to be the temporary 
guests of their people ! 

At nine o’clock Sabine was alone in her 
own room, struggling with herself and 
seeking to become accustomed to the 
thought of her interview with Monsieur 
de Breulh. She did not sleep that night ; 
in the morning she was utterly worn out, 
but still she had no idea of evading the 
promise she had given, or even of post- 
poning its fulfilment. She had sworn to 
do it at once, and Andre was awaiting a 
letter with mortal impatience. The more 
she studied her situation, the more impera- 
tive she realized the necessity of a prompt 
determination. To let things take their 
own way now, was to run the risk of en- 
countering the same frightful obstacle. 

A youn^ girl, she was told, could not be 
married without her consent. This was a 
mistake, and so Sabine knew. And she 
could not confide in her father, still less 
in her mother. Without ever having been 
taken into their confidence, she keenly 
felt that a cloud hung over their fortunes ; 
that the whole atmosphere of the house 
indicated a misfortune near at hand. 

When she left the convent and returned 
to her home, she was conscious of being 
in the way — that she was de trop. She 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


65 


was secure in the belief that her parents 
would look upon the day of her marriage 
as the restoration of their liberty. 

They would be free then to separate, to 
flee from each other to the uttermost ends 
of the earth. She was the only link which 
held them together. Realizing all this 
fully the greater grew her despair, and 
she soon reached that state of mind in 
which young girls take the most desperate 
resolutions. Yes, it seemed to her less 
painful, less cruel to leave forever the 
paternal roof than to face Monsieur de 
Breulh, when she confessed the truth. 
Fortunately, frail as she looked, she had a 
certain energy, that was almost masculine, 
and by force of cirumstahces had learned 
to depend upon herself. For Andre, how- 
ever, even more than for herself, she was 
anxious in no way to ofiend against the 
laws of the society to which she was allied 
by birth and education. For a long time 
she had hidden her happiness, as if it were 
a matter of shame instead of rejoicing, on 
which her world would sooner or later 
take vengeance. She longed for the hour 
to come when before God and man she 
could acknowledge her love. 

At noon she was still in the same state 
of indecision, and kneeling before her cru- 
cifix, prayed and wept. Alas! why was 
she motherless? At one time she even 
thought of writing, but she was old 
enough to comprehend the excessive folly 
of putting on paper sentences which she 
dared not speak. 

The time passed, and Sabine reproached 
herself bitterly for what she called her 
pusillanimity. Suddenly she beared the 
great gates clash as they were thrown 
open. A carriage had entered the court- 
yard. Mechanically the young girl went 
to the window, looked out, and uttered a 
little cry of joy. She had just seen Mon- 
sieur de Breulh-Faverlay descend from a 
phaeton, which was driven by himself in 
spite of the excessive cold. 

‘^God has heard me,” she murmured, 
“ and in answer to my prayers has sent 
him here ! The worst is over.” 

What do you intend to do, mademoi- 
selle?” asked the faithful Modeste. “Do 
you intend to speak to the gentleman 
here? ” 

“ Yes. My mother has not left her dres- 
sing-room, and no one will disturb my 
father in the library except by his express 
command. If I stop Monsieur de Breulh 
in the hall, and ask him to go into the 
salon, I shall have fifteen minutes without 
interruption, and that is more than I need.” 

Summoning all her courage, and slowly 
laying aside all her timidity, she left the 
room. 

Andre might well have been proud — he, 
the poor painter, the foundling — to see 
himself preferred to the man chosen by the 
Comte de Mussidan for his only daughter. 

Monsieur de Breulh-Faverlay is one of 


the fev/ men outside of the ofiicial world 
in regard to whom Paris disturbed herself, 
for Fortune had seen fit to empty upon his 
head all her most highly prized favors. He 
was not yet forty, extremely distinguished 
in appearance, clever and cultivated, and, 
in addition, one of the largest estate hold- 
ers in France. How could he have permitted 
him to remain a stranger to the affairs of 
his country and of his generation when he 
was approached on this subject. 

‘‘ I have enough to do,” he would say, 
to spend my money, without making my- 
self ridiculous ! ” Was his modesty real 
or affected? No one could say. One thing 
was certain, that he seemed the absolute 
incarnation of ail that of which the French 
nobility once boasted. His loyalty was 
unblemished, his courtesy and wit exqui- 
site, while his chivalric and generous dis- 
position well fitted him for devotion to 
lost causes. He had, it was said, great 
success with women. If half of the on dits 
were true, his discretion was as great as 
his success. 

A mysterious shadow hanging over him 
from his youth up added greatly to his 
prestige. He had not always been weal- 
thy ; an orphan, with a vei y insignificant 
patrimony. Monsieur de Breulh embarked 
at the age of twenty for South America. 
He remained there twelve years, and re- 
turned to France as poor as at his depart- 
ure, when his uncle, the old Marquis de 
Faverlay, died, bequeathing to him his 
immense fortune, on the condition that he 
should add to his name of Breulh that of 
Faverlay. 

The young man had but one strong pas- 
sion, and that was for horses; but he 
showed this taste after the manner of a 
grand seigneur, not like a horse-jockey. 
This is all that the world Knew of a man 
who held in his hands the destinies of An- 
dre and Sabine de Mussidan. 

He was standing in the hall speaking to 
the lacqueys, who had risen at his ap- 
proach, when, seeing Sabine on the lowest 
step of the staircase, he bowed profoundly. 
The girl came directly toward him. 

“ Sir,” she said, in a voice that was al- 
most unintelligible from agitation, “ I ask a 
few minutes conversation with you alone.” 

De Breulh concealed his astonishment 
under another bow even more profound 
than the first. 

“Mademoiselle,” he said, gravely, “I 
am entirely at your orders.” 

Upon a sign from Sabine one of the foot- 
men threw open the door of the same 
salon where Dr. Hortebise had seen the 
haughty Comtesse de Mussidan almost on 
her knees before him. The young girl 
preceded her visitor in utter carelessness 
of the conjectures and opinions of the 
servants. 

She did not ask Monsieur de Breulh to 
take a chair, and, standing herself, she 
leaned against the marble slab of the chim- 


66 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


ney as if her strength were nearly gone. 
After a long silence, frightfully embarrass- 
ing to both, the young girl finally suc- 
ceeded in overcoming her agitation. 

“My extraordinary conduct,” she began, 
“ will prove to you, sir, better than the 
most lengthy explanations, the sincerity of 
my respect for your character and the ab- 
solute confidence with which you have in- 
spired me.” She hesitated — but De Breulh 
did not speak. What was the girl about 
to say? He could not form the slightest 
idea. “ You are a friend of my parents,” 
she continued. “You have been able to 
form some opinion of the discomforts of 
my home, of the unhappiness of our inte- 
rior. You know, that though my father 
and mother are living, that I am absolutely 
as forsaken and desolate as any orphan 

” She was silent, overwhelmed with 

shame. 

The idea that Monsieur de Breulh might 
misunderstand her, and think that she was 
seeking to excuse herself by blaming 
others, revolted her pride. It was conse- 
quently with a shade of haughtiness, which 
might have seemed misplaced under the 
circumstances, that she resumed. 

“ But 1 do not propose to justify myself. 
In venturing to ask an interview, sir, it is 
simply that I wished to say to you — to ask 
you — in short, sir, to entreat you to relin- 
quish a project which is in contemplation, 
and to take upon yourself all the responsi- 
bility of the rupture.” 

So utterly unexpected were these words, 
that Monsieur de Breulh, great as was the 
self-control acquired by constant inter- 
course with the world, found it impossible 
to conceal his astonishment and also a cer- 
tain mortification. 

“ Mademoiselle ” he began. 

Sabine interrupted him. “It is a great 
favor,” she said, “that I ask at your 
hands. Your generosity will spare me 
many sad and sorrowful hours.” A dreary 
smile flickered over her pale face, she 
added : “I am aware that it is a very tri- 
fling sacrifice that I demand of you. I 
have the honor of being but slightlj^ known 
to you, and it is impossible that you can 
be other than indifferent to me.” 

The young man answered very gravely : 
“ You are mistaken, mademoiselle, and 
you judge me ill. I have long since passed 
the age at which a man takes sudden reso- 
lutions. If I asked your hand, it was be- 
cause I knew how to appreciate, as they 
merited, your noble qualities of head and 
of heart. I believe that we two could be 
happy if you would condescend to accept 
my name.” 

The girl’s lips parted to speak, but De 
Breulh went on : 

“ And now, mademoiselle, have I dis- 
pleased you? I do not know. Only, 
mademoiselle, believe me when I tell you 
that I shall deplore it as a misfortune all 
the rest of my life.” 


The sincerity of Monsieur de Breulh's 
regret and disappointment was so evident 
that Sabine was really touched. 

“You have not displeased me, sir, and 
you honor me far beyond my merits. I 
should have been proqd and happy to be- 
come your wife ” She stopped,"choked 

by her tears, but Monsieur de Breulh was 
cruel enough to insist on her continuing. 

“ If ? ’' he asked. 

Sabine turned her head away, and in a 
faint voice, replied : 

“ If I had not given my heart and prom- 
ised my hand to another.” 

The young man uttered an exclamation : 
“Ah !” Jealousy, accident, or intention, had 
given to this “ ah ! ” a sarcastic intonation 
which wounded Sabine sol ely. She turned 
quickly, and with uplifted head met the 
interrogative ej^es of De Breulh. 

“ Yes, sir; another — chosen by myself, 
without the knowledge of my family. 
Another to whom I am as dear as he is to 
me.” 

The young man did not speak. 

“ And this should not in any way offend 
you,” continued the girl, “ for when I met 
him I was as ignorant of your existence as 
you were of mine. There is, besides, no 
possible comparison between you. He is 
at the foot of the social ladder, you at the 
top. You are noble; he belongs to the 
people. You are proud of having a title 
— the world speaks of De Breulh as they 
do of De Coney — he has not even a name. 
Your fortune is beyond all your desires; 
he struggles in obscurity for his daily 
bread. Yes, sir; he may have genius, but 
the sordid cares of life weigh him down to 
the earth. To enable him to study art he 
learned a mechanic’s trade, and if you ever 
take his hand you will fliid it hard with 
toil.” 

Had Mademoiselle Mussidan endeavored 
to pain this gallant man whom she asked 
to serve her, she could hardly have spoken 
difterently. In her inexperi mce she 
thought entire frankness would best heal 
the wound she inflicted. Never, however, 
had she been so lovely as at that moment, 
when her whole nature was shaken by the 
breath of passion. Her voice had acquired 
a fuller, richer meaning ; her soul looked 
out the windows of her eyes. 

“ Now, sir,” she said, “ do you under- 
stand my preferences ? The more profound 
the abyss which separates may seem to 
you, the greater will be my fidelity to my 
oath. I shall be called headstrong and 
undutiful. It may be even that the future 
has in store for me some terrible chastise- 
ment, but no one will ever hear one word 

of complaint from my lips. For ” 

She hesitated and then added, with quiet 
firmness : “ For I love him ! ” 

Monsieur de Breulh listened, apparently 
cold and unmoved, but in reality the most 
frightful of passions— jealousy— was gnaw- 
ing at his heart. 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


67 


He had given the girl a hint only of the 
truth : he had loved Sabine for' a long 
time. It was the edifice of his whole fu- 
ture that, without realizing what she had 
done, the girl had just thrown down. Yes, 
he was noble, he was rich ; but he would 
have given all — titles and fortune — to be 
in the place of the other, who worked for 
his bread, who was nameless, but who was 
beloved. Many another man in his place 
would have shrugged his shoulders and 
explained Sabine’s conduct with the one 
word — ‘‘ romantic ! ” But he did not ; his 
nature was sufiiciently noble to understand 
hers. And that which he admired the most 
in her was the frankness with which she 
went directly to the end she had in view 
without excuses or subterfuges; he ad- 
mired her courage and honesty. 

Of course she was imprudent and reck- 
less in a certain way. but these qualities 
lost her nothing in his eyes. It is not often 
that young ladies brought up in the con- 
vent wherein Sabine was educated err in 
the same direction. In these days of shal- 
low gallantries, of low and vulgar in- 
trigues, at an epoch when the notary who 
draws up the maia iage contract represents 
all that there is of poetry in the greater 
part of the marriages that rake place. 
Monsieur de Breulh found himself for the 
first time in his life in the presence of a 
woman capable of a great and rigorous 
passion. This woman he had hoped to 
make his wife, and now he found how ill- 
founded were his hopes. He turned to 
question her a little further, longing for a 
ray of hope. 

‘‘And this other,” he said, “how is it 
possible for 5^ou ever to see him? ” 

“ I meet him out walking,” she an- 
swered: “and I have even been to his 
rooms ” 

“ To his rooms ” 

“Yes, I have given him repeated sit- 
tings for my portrait, and,” she added, 
haughtily, “ I have nothing for which to 
blush.” 

The young man was utterly confounded. 

“ You know all, sir,” resumed Sabine. 
“It has been very hard for me, a young 
girl, to say this to you — to say to you 
what I dared not tell my mother. What 
ought I to do, and what will you do?” 

Only those few persons who have heard 
a woman, with whom they were madly in 
love, say : “I do not love you ; I have 
given my life to another ; I can never love 
you; relinquish all hope” — only those 
persons can form any just idea of the state 
of mind to which Monsieur de Breulh was 
thrown. He was certain of one thing, and 
that simply, that had he been made aware, 
in any other way, of Sabine’s love affair, 
he would never have retii ed. He would 
have accepted the contest with the hope 
of triumphing over the happy mortal 
whom she preferred to himself. But now. 
when Mademoiselle de Mussidan asked his 


assistance and advice, to take advantage 
of her confidence was an impossibility. 

“ It shall be as you wish, mademoiselle,” 
he replied, not without bitterness. “I 
will write to-night to your father to give 
him back his promise; and it will be the 
first time in my life that I have ever 
broken my own. I have not yet decided 
what pretext I shall advance. I am sure 
that your father’s indignation will be great, 
but I obey you.” / 

By this time Sabine had no strength 
left. 

“ I thank you, sir,” she said, “ from the 
bottom of my heart. I shall escape, 
thanks to you, a contest, the very thoughts 
of which fill me with dread. And now 

95 

De Breulh did not appear to show the 
sense of security which he had imparted 
to Sabine, and interrupted her quickly. 

“Unfortunately, mademoiselle,” he said, 
“ you do not seem to realize the useless- 
ness of the sacrifice you exact from me. 
Permit me to explain. Up to this time 
you have been very little in the world; 
and as soon as you appeared in society, 
the intentions of your parents in regard to 
5^ou and myself were well known. Conse- 
quently you attracted comparatively little 
attention. But to morrow, when it is 
known that I have retired, twenty aspi- 
rants will spring up in my place.” 

Sabine sighed, for this was the same 
objection that Andre had made. 

“ And,” continued De Breulh, “ your 
situation will be infinitely more difficult. 
If your noble qualites are calculated to 
awaken the most elevated sentiments, your 
great future is equally likely to arouse the 
cupidity of the men you meet. 

What did De Breulh mean by these 
words, fortune and cupidity? Were they 
in allusion to Andre? 

She looked at him earnestly, but she 
read no irony in his eyes. 

“ It is true,” she said, sadly, “ my dowry 
is enormous.” 

What will be your reply to the next 
person who presents himself ? ” 

“ I do not know; but. doubtless, I shall 
find some plausible reasons for my refusal. 
Besides, if I act in obedience to the voice 
of my heart and conscience, I cannot do 
wrong. God will take pity on me ! ” 

Thfs last phrase was a dismissal, and 
De Breulh, a thorough man of the world, 
could not fail to so understand it ; never- 
theless, he did not move. 

“ If I dared, mademoiselle,” he began, 
“if I could hope that you would permit 
me, as a friend, to offer you a word of 
advice ” 

“ Go on, sir, I beg of you.” 

“ Well, then, whj^ not remain on the 
terms on which we now stand? So long as 
our rupture is not known, just so long and 
no longer is your peace secured. It would 
be a very simple thing to postpone for a 


68 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS. 


year all decisive steps, and I should be 
ready to retire on the day and hour you 
should signify.” 

Was there anything concealed behind 
this generosity? No; and Sabine did not 
for a moment doubt her friend. 

No, sir, no,” she answered, earnestly. 

This would be taking a most shameful 
advantage of 5^0 u, and would place you in 
a mortifying position. Besides, reflect a 
moment, this subterfuge would be unwor- 
thy of you, of me, and of him.” 

Monsieur de Breulh did not urge this 
point. To his first feeling of wounded 
pride had succeeded a certain tenderness 
— a plan worthy of his chivalric character 
had occurred to him, but his respect for the 
young girl was so great, that he was anx- 
ious to word it in a way that would not 
offend her. 

‘‘Would it,” he began, hesitatingly — 
“ would it be taking advantage of the con- 
fidence you have so kindly bestowed on 
me, if I were to express to you the happi- 
ness I should feel if I were permitted to 
make the acquaintance of the man whom 
you have chosen?” 

Sabine colored deeply. 

“ I have no concealments from you,” 
she said ; “ his name is Andre, an artist, 
and he resides in the Eue de la Tour d’ Au- 
vergne, No ” 

De Breulh forgot neither the name nor 
the address. 

“Do not, I entreat of you, mademoi- 
selle, attribute my request to mere curios- 
ity. I have but one wish, that of serving 
you. It would be very sweet to me to be- 
come your ally — to stand for a something 
in your life, I have powerful friends and 
relatives who give ” 

His earnestness betrayed him into a false 
step. With the best intentions, this man, 
so adroit and with intuitions so delicate, 
had deeply wounded Sabine. Did he pro- 
pose to patronize Andre — that is to say, 
in this way to demonstrate his own superi- 
ority of position and fortune? No woman 
could stand that. 

“ Thank you, sir,” she replied, coldly. 
“But I know Andre so well. Any offer 
of assistance would humiliate him fright- 
fully. I am absurd, you think? Excuse 
me, but our peculiar position imposes on 
us scruples that are possibly needless and 
exaggerated. Poor fellow! his pride and 
his self-respect are his sole title to nobil- 
ity.” And Sabine touched the bell with 
the intention of cutting short a conversa- 
tion that was excessively painful to both 
parties. 

A servant appeared. 

“ Have you informed my mother of this 
gentleman’s visit? ” she asked. 

“No, mademoiselle, for both my mas- 
ter and mistress gave orders this morning 
that no one was to be admitted.” 

“ Why did you not tell me this before? ” 
said Monsieur de Breulh, sternly. 


And without waiting to hear the very 
obvious justification of the valet, he bowed 
ceremoniously to Sabine, excused himself 
for having involuntarily intruded upon 
her, and went off, allowing all the ser- 
vants to see that he was considerably out 
of temper. 

“Ah!” said Sabine, to herself, “that 
man is worthy of some good woman’s 
love.” 

She turned to leave the room, when 
voices in the hall were heard. She wished 
to avoid seeing strangers, and waited a 
moment. She heard some one insist upon 
seeing Comte de Mussidan; at once the 
servants refused — respectfully but firmly. 

“What do I care about your orders?” 
said the unknown visitor. “They are of 
no consequence to me. Am I, or am I not, 
your master’s intimate friend? Yes, go 
and tell him at once that I am here — that 
I am waiting to see him. Tell him this, 
or I shall go up myself ! ” 

The determination of this visitor was so 
great that he pushed past all the lacqueys 
and entered the salon. This unfortunate 
personage was no other than Monsieur de 
Clinchan, the friend, from boyhood, of 
Monsieur de Mussidan, the only witness, 
besides Ludovic, of the death of the un- 
fortunate Montlouis. Monsieur de Clin- 
chan was neither tall nor short, neither 
thin nor stout, neither handsome nor ugly. 
His person was as thoroughly common- 
place as was his mind and his dress. 
There v/as but one thing noticeable in his 
appearance, and that a trifle — he wore on 
his watch-guard a large coral hand. He 
feared the evil eye. When young he was 
methodical — as he grew old his method 
became an absolute mania. At twenty he 
made a memoranda of the pulsations of 
his heart. At forty he added to these 
memoranda others, in regard to his diges- 
tion. If Paradise is the realization of our 
disappointed wishes here below, M. de 
Clinchan would certainly be a clock in the 
next world. 

For a moment he was so frightfully 
agitated that he did not even bow to 
Sabine. 

“What a shock,’' he murmured; “and 
to come at this time, when I had eaten 
more heavily than usual. If I do not die 
of it, I shall feel its effects for the next six 
months.” 

At the sight of Monsieur de Mussidan, 
who at that moment appeared, he inter- 
rupted himself, and running toward him, 
he exclaimed : 

“Octave, save us both! What will 
become of us if you do not break off your 
daughter’s marriage with ” 

Monsieur de Mussidan's slender, nervous 
hand was quickly laid over his lips. 

“Are you crazy? ” said the count. “ Do 
you not see my daughter?” 

In obedience to an imperious glance 
from her father, Sabine fled from the 


THE SLAVES OF PAEIS, 


69 


room. But De Clinchan had said enough 
to fill her heart with alarm and distrust. 

What was this rupture he spoke of, and 
with whom ? And how could her marriage 
affect her father and his friend? There 
was some mystery, certainly, and the 
eagerness with which the count checked 
his friend proved this clearly. The name 
that De Clinchan had been prohibited from 
speaking was clearly that of De Breulh- 
Faverlay. One of those rapid presenti- 
ments, whose truth it would be puerile to 
deny, told her that the phrase which had 
been so summarily dealt with contained the 
key-note of her destiny. She was as cer- 
tain as she was of the setting of that day’s 
sun that the conversation about to take 
place was connected with her happiness 
for life. Of what were her father and the 
count about to speak? She burned to hear 
each syllable ; it was not curiosity so much 
as a wild anxiety that influenced her. She 
looked around, and suddenly thought that 
if she should establish herself in one of 
the card-rooms, separated from the grand 
salon by a mere portiere^ that she could 
hear every word. She took her place, and 
found that she was right. De Clinchan 
was still complaining. So sudden, in fact 
almost violent, had been the energetic 
gesture of Monsieur de Mussidan that he 
had almost knocked him down. 

Good heavens ! ” groaned De Clinchan 
‘‘ what a day this has been ! Just think of 
it ! Too heavy a breakfast, violent emo- 
tion, rapid exercise. Fit of passion 
aroused by the servants’ joy in seeing you, 
then a shock and sudden interruption of 
the respiratory functions. It is more than 
ten times as much as was necessary to 
occasion an illness, which at oiir age 

But the count, generally indulgence it- 
self to his friend’s caprices, was not now 
disposed to listen to him. 

To facts, if you please,” he said, in a 
sharp, decided tone; “what has hap- 
pened?” 

“Happened!” sighed De Clinchan. 
“ Only that the story of the Bois de Ber- 
ron is known. An anonymous letter, 
which I received an hour ago, threatens 
me with the most frightful misfortunes if 
I do not prevent you from giving your 
daughter to De Breulh. The rascals write 
that they have every proof ” 

“ Where is this letter? ” 

De Clinchan took the letter from his 
pocket. It was as explicit and threatening 
as possible, but it told Monsieur De Mus- 
sidan nothing that he did not already know. 

“Have you looked at your journal?” 
asked the count; “and are there three 
.leaves gone?” 

“ Yes.” 

“How was it possible for them to be 
stolen?” 

‘ ‘ Ah ! How? If you could but tell me.” 

“ Are you sure of your servants? ” 

“ Certainly. Do you not know that 


Lorin, my valet, has been in my service 
for sixteen years ; that he was brought up 
by my father, and that I have made him, 
I "may say, after my own pattern? None 
other of my servants ever crossed the 
threshold of my rooms. The volumes of 
my journal are in an oak escritoire, whose 
key is always in my possession.” 

“Nevertheless, some one crossed the 
threshold, you see.” 

De Clinchan thought for a moment, then 
suddenly clapped his forehead. 

“ I have it I ” he cried. “ Some months 
ago, one Sunday, Lorin went to a fete in 
the neighborhood of Paris, and drank too 
much with some men whose acquaintance 
he had made on the railway. After drink- 
ing with them they began to quarrel, and 
he was so ill used by his new friends that 
he was obliged to remain in his bed for 
some weeks. He had a deep stab from a 
knife on one shoulder.” 

“ Who was with you during that time?” 

“ A young man picked up by my coach- 
man at an Intelligence Office.” 

The count felt that here was a clew. He 
remembered that the man who had called 
on him had had the impudence to leave a 
card on which was written; “ B. Masca- 
rot; Employment Agency for both sexes. 
Rue Montorgeuil.” 

“ Do you know” he said, “ where this 
bureau is situated? ” 

“Certainly; in the Rue du Dauphin, 
almost opposite me.” 

The count uttered an exclamation of 
fierce anger. 

“Ah! the wretches are strong, very 
strong. Still, my friend, if you feel as I 
do, and are ready to brave the storm, we 
two will face it together.” 

The very idea sent a cold chill from De 
Clinchan’ s head to his feet. 

“ Never ! ” he cried, “ never ! My deci- 
sion is made. If you intend to resist, just 
tell me so frankly, and I will go home and 
blow out my brains ! ” 
r He was the sort of man to do precisely 
as he said. In spite of his many prepos- 
terous little ways, his personal bravery 
was incontestable, and he would ten times 
rather have gone to the last extremity than 
remain exposed to constant annoyances, 
which would in the end have ruined his 
digestion. 

“ Ver}^ well, then, I will yield! ” replied 
the count, with sullen resignation. 

De Clinchan drew a long breath. As he 
was in ignorance of all that his friend had 
passed through, he supposed it a matter 
of far more difficulty to bring him to this 
decision. 

“For once in your life you are reason- 
able. 

“ That is to say, I seem so to you, be- 
cause I listen to your timid counsels. Ac- 
cursed be your inconceivable habit of con- 
fiding to paper, not only your own secrets, 
but the secrets of other people.” 


70 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


But on this point De Clinchan was in- 
tractable. 

“Good heavens!” he cried, “do not 
talk in that way. If you had not com- 
mitted a crime I should not have registered 
one in my journal I ” 

A long silence succeeded this cruel re- 
sponse. Frozen with horror and trem- 
bling like a leaf, Sabine had heard every 
word. Her most frightful presentiments 
had been surpassed by the reality. A 
crime ! A crime in the life of her father ! 

Meanwhile the count broke the silence. 

“What is .the use of reproaches?” he 
said. “Can we undo the past? No; 
therefore we must submit. To-day, I give 
you my word 1 will write to De Breulh 
and inform him of the rupture of our 
plans.” 

To Monsieur de Clinchan these words 
signified peace and security. But after 
his suspense this joy had a terrible effect, 
and he sank back on the sofa as he mur- 
mured : 

“Too copious a repast! violent emo- 
tions ! ” and he fainted. 

The count was terrified out of his sen- 
ses, and rang the bell violently. The 
servants rushed in from every part of the 
hotel, and behind them the countess her- 
self. Ten minutes and a bottle of cologne 
were needed before Monsieur de Clinchan 
recovered. He opened one eye, then the 
other, then raised himself on his elbow. 

“ I am better,” he said, with a pallid 
smile. “Weakness — dizziness — I know 
what it is, and what I should take. Two 
spoonfuls of Elixir des Cannes in a glass 
of sugar and water, with entire repose of 
mind and body.” 

As he spoke he staggered to his feet. 

“ My carriage is here, fortunately. Pray 
be prudent. Octave.” 

And taking the arm of one of the foot- 
men he went out, leaving the Count and 
Countess de Mussidan alone together. 
And in the card-room Sabine still stood 
listening. 

CHAPTER XHI. 

ANOTHER ! 

Since the evening before, that is, since 
the moment when he lifted his cane with 
the intention of administering a correction 
to the honorable Mascarot, the Count de 
Mussidan had been in a most pitiable state. 
Forgetting the pain of his injured foot he 
had spent the night walking up and down 
his library, busying his soul by trying to 
find some means of breaking loose from 
this most humiliating tyranny. He felt 
the necessity of prompt action, for he had 
sufficient experience to understand that, 
in spite of the firm protestations of Mas- 
carot, this exaction was one of the first of 
a long series which would become more 
exacting with each acquiescence. 

A thousand projects occurred to him one 


after the other, all to be abandoned in 
rapid succession. Sometimes he decided 
to go to the Prefect of Police and confess 
the whole ; then he thought of appealing 
to one of those private detectives, and fol- 
lowing his advice. The more the count 
deliberated, the more he realized the so- 
lidity of the noose with which he had been 
trapped, and the extent of the scandal 
which would take place. 

Twenty hours of this sort of thing had 
in some degree toned down the violence of 
his anger, and when Monsieur de Cline lan 
w’as announced, he therefore welcomed his 
old friend with some degree ot calmness. 
The anonymous letter had not surprised 
him; in fact, it might almost be said that 
he had looked for something of the kind. 
Entirely occupied in thoughts lik ) these, 
the count took no notice of his wife’s 
presence. Disconnected phrases fell from 
his lips as he paced the room. This in- 
difference irritated the countess, whose 
curiosity had been excited by the words 
uttered by De Clinchan. Was it not 
natural for her to be always on the qui 
vive^ she whose position was so threat- 
ened? 

“ What was it so agitated you. Octave? ” 
she asked. “ Can it be the indigestion of 
Monsieur de Clinchan which disquiets 
you? ” 

The count had been accustomed to that 
sharp thin voice for many years, and had 
borne that satirical smile with comparative 
composure. But, this very poor jest at 
such a time was more than he could bear. 

Do not speak in that way! ” he said, 
angrily. “ And do not you address me, if 
you please, in that tone,” 

‘"What is the matter, my friend ! Are 
you ill? ” 

Madame? ” 

Then, will you have the kindness to 
tell me what has happened? ” 

The color rushed to the count’s face, his 
anger now blazed all the more because of 
its long suppression. He stopped before 
the chair in which madame reclined : his 
eyes were fiaming with hate and menaces. 

“I wish you to understand, madame, 
simply that our daughter will not marry 
Monsieur de Breulh-Faverlay .” 

This inconceivable speech naturally 
delighted Mndame de Mussidan. Tne half 
of the task imposed on her by Dr. Horte- 
bise was accomplished without an effort on 
her part. Notwithstanding this, however, 
she naturally offered some objections. 
Women invariably begin, systematically 
and instint ively, by opposing those de- 
signs of which they most entirely approve. 
It is their way. Each of their objections 
they feel makes its mark. 

“Are you jesting, sir?” she said. 
“ How is it possible for us to find a man 
so young and so brilliant, I might almost 
say so u.. expected.” 

“Oh!” answered the count, bitterly, 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


71 


“ you need not be afraid ! You shall have 
another soo-in-law.” 

This phrase pierces the heart of the 
countess like an arrow. What did he 
mean to imply? Was there an allusion to 
the past, or was it a mere facon de parler'i 
Had her husband any suspicions of the 
influence which had been brought to bear 
upon her? She was a brave woman, how- 
ever, and also one of those who, to the 
fear of coming disasters prefer the disas- 
ters themselves, however overwhelming 
they may be. 

‘‘Of what other son-in-law do you 
speak?” she said, carelessly. “Has any 
one presented another; and who, may I 
ask, presumes to dispose of the future of 
my child without consulting me?” 

“ I do, madame.” 

The countess smiled, contemptuously. 
This slight smile was like a match touched 
to tinder, like the sting of a whip lash 
across the face; and the count lost his 
head. 

“Am I not master?” he cried, angrily. 
“ Am I not driven to this exercise of au- 
thority by threats from scoundrels who 
have ferreted out the secret of my life — 
the crime that has darkened my life from 
my youth up? They have all the proof 
they need to dishonor my name ! ” 

The countess started to her feet, asking 
herself if her husband had not lost his rea- 
son. 

“ A crime ! ” she gasped. “ You? ” 

“Yes, I! Ah, that surprises you; and 
you never suspected it. You will, perhaps, 
remember an accident that occurred one 
day in hunting, which cast a gloom over 
the first years of our marriage? Very 
well ; the aftair was no accident : it was a 
voluntary act on my part. I deliberately 
shot him — assassinated him, in fact. And 
this is known and ])roved.” 

The countess, white with terror, recoiled 
with her arms extended before her, as if to 
ward off danger. 

“ Ah, you are shocked, are you? ” sneered 
the count. “I inspire you with horror, 
possibly. But do not tremble, there is no 
blood on my hands ! ” 

And he pressed them on his heart, as if 
he could not breathe, as he continued : 

“ It is here that the blood is, and it sti- 
fles me. I have endured this for twenty- 
three years, and, even now I wake in the 
middle of the night. I wake, bathed in 
sweat, because in my dreams I hear the 
death rattle of the poor creature.” 

Madame de Mus>idan sank on a chair. 

“ This is horrible,” she whispered, 
hoarsely. 

“Yes; but you do not yet know why I 
killed him. You do not yet know that he, 
my victim, dared to tell me that the young 
wife whom I adored had a lover.” 

The countess started up, vehement de- 
nials on her lips, but her husband added, 
coldly : 


“ And it was true — I learned the facts 
later.” 

She fell back half fainting, hiding her 
face with her hands. 

“ Poor Montlouis,” continued the count, 
slowly, “ he was really loved. There was 
a little gri'ette, who toiled each day for 
the bread she ate. But she was by nature 
a hundred times more noble, this poor 
girl, than the haughty heiress whom 1 had 
just married, and who was of the Laure- 
bourg race.” 

“ Octave ! Have mercy ! ” 

“ Ah ! yes, and she proved it Montlouis 
betrayed her. He would have married 
her, had he lived, for he loved her so. At 
her lover’s death her shame was known. 
People in small towns are pitiless. When 
she left the hospital with her infant in her 
arms, the old women took the mud from 
the gutters and covered her with it. But 
for me,” continued the count, “ she would 
have died of starvation. Poor child ! It 
was little enough that 1 gave her, but with 
it she brought up her son dei'ently enough. 
He is now a man grown, and, whatever 
happens, his future is secured.” 

During those furious tempests which 
shake the soul to its foundations, the 
senses are dulled to all external circum- 
stances. Less profoundly moved Monsieur 
deMussidan and his wite would have heard 
the stifled sobs which were heard in the 
dismal silence of the room when they 
themselves ceased to speak. The countess 
pretended that she had often suffered from 
the violence of her husband, but she had 
never before seen him like this. Never in 
his most furious passions had he passed 
certain boundaries, till now — his passions 
overleaped all restraint. He even, it must 
be admitted, felt a bitter pleasure, an im- 
mense relief, in giving a free course to the 
bitterness which had gathered in these 
long years within the depths of his soul. 

“ Tell me now, madame, if it would not 
be the height of injustice to compare this 
poor girl to yourself. Have you ever lis- 
tened to the voice of your conscience? 
Have you never trembled at the thought 
that God will certainly punish you some 
day — you, who were guilty as a daughter, 
criminal as a wife, and a selfish and un- 
worthy mother? ” 

Ordinarily, the countess held her ground 
with her husband, and was utterly indif- 
ferent to his reproaches, however well 
merited they might be; but to-day she 
lost courage. 

“With you,” continued the count, 
“ shame and misfortune entered into my 
life. ' Who could have suspected the truth 
who saw you so gay and girlish, without 
a care on your brow, under those old trees 
at Laurebourg! How many times, in 
those days, when my one hope and fairest 
dream of happiness was to win you for my 
wife, I have watched you for hours with- 
out a suspicion that I was the dupe of an 


72 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


odious comedy? While yet a younj^ girl, 
you had reached absolute perfection in 
dissimulation. Never one shadow dimmed 
the brightness of your eyes — never was 
there a look of guilt in their clear frank- 
ness. When together we entered the 
church, where our unfortunate marriage 
was solemnized, I silently asked your par- 
don for my own unworthiness. Miserable 
fool! I was happy beyond the power of 
expression when you. madame, added 
adultery to your crimes ! ” 

The countess made a gesture of denial. 

“ It’s false,” she murmured ; they have 
lied to you ! ” 

Monsieur de Mussidan laughed a hollow 
laugh. 

‘‘No;” he said; “I have every proof. 
You think this extraordinary, do you? 
You have always taken me for one of 
those blind husbands who can be fooled 
with impunity. You thought you had 
tied a thick bandage over my eyes ! You 
were mistaken. I saw through it clearly, 
too clearly by far. Why did I not tell you 
this? Because I had not, alas! ceased to 
love you ; and this love was stronger than 
my will, than my pride, than my self-re- 
spect. It is easy for those persons who 
have never loved with the whole strength 
of their souls and their bodies, to smile at 
the inconceivable meanness of a man who 
loves where he has ceased to respect.” 

He spoke with extraordinary vehemence, 
and the countess listened, confounded by 
these transports of passion and almost 
breathless. 

“ I was silent,” continued Monsieur de 
Mussidan, “ because I knew that the day 
when I should say one word you would be 
utterly lost to me. I could have killed 
you, but it was out of my power to live 
separate from you. No, you will never 
know how many times you have been but 
a hair’s breadth from death. When I 
kissed you, it seemed to me sometimes that 
I saw on your pale face the crimson marks 
of other kisses than my own, and it re- 
quired the most heroic efforts on my part 
not to strangle you then and there. And 
I finally found it hopeless to decide 
whether I most hated or loved you.” 

“ Octave ! mercy. Octave ! ” breathed 
the countess. 

JEIe shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Yes, your surprise is great,” he said, 
gloomily, “yet if I pleased I could sur- 
prise you still more. But, enough ! ” 

The countess shuddered. Did her hus- 
band know of the letters? All depended 
on this. She was sure that at least he had 
not read them ; he would huve expressed 
himself very differently had he known the 
mystery which they would have revealed. 

“ Let me tell you ” she began. 

“Nothing — not one word,” answered 
her husband. 

“ I swear to you ” 

“ It is useless. But I must not forget to 


avow my presumption in those days of our 
youth. You will laugh, but that is no 
matter. I actually rocked myself in the 
belief that I could win your heart. I said 
that sooner or later you would be touched 
by my profound and faithful affection. It 
was absurd, was it not? As if any affec- 
tion could have touched your cold heart ! ” 
“ Ah ! how pitiless you are ! ” 

He looked at her with eyes full of a 
twenty-year-old hatred, and said, coldly : 
“ And you, what are you? ” 

“ If you knew ” 

“ I know enough. I know the end that 
came to all my efforts. I drank to the 
dregs the poisoned chalice offered by an 
adored wife to a deceived husband. Each 
day widened the abyss between us, and 
finally we came to live this infernal exist- 
ence which is killing me.” 

“ You had only to say ” 

“ To say what? I could not act as your 
jailer ! Where would have been the good? 
I wanted your heart, your soul. To im- 
prison your body would have been a simple 
thing to do, but your thoughts could still 
have flown to the rendezvous. I wonder 
how I had strength to linger near you. It 
was not to protect your honor, for that 
was gone — it was simply to save appear- 
ances. With me at your side ^mu could 
not drag our name through the mire.” 

Madame de Mussidan once again tried to 
protest her innocence, but her husband did 
not even seem to hear her protestations. 

“ I wished,” he resumed, “ to save also 
something of our revenues, for your ex- 
travagance was a bottomless gulf which 
swallowed everything. In what fire did 
you so destroy bank-notes that not even 
their ashes were left to tell the tale? 
Credit was finally refused you. Your jew- 
elers, milliners, and dressmakers thought 
me ruined, and this belief on their part 
prevented my ruin. I had Sabine to think 
of — I have rescued from your clutches a 

rich dowry for her — and yet ” 

He hesitated ; whence came this hesita- 
tion after all that he had said ? 

Madame de Mussidan repeated his words 
“ And yet.” 

“Never! ” he cried, in a fearful explo- 
sion of rage, “never once have I kissed 
that child without feeling this horrible 
doubt : Is Sabine my child? ” 

The countess rose indignantly. No, this 
she could not bear. 

“Enough,” she cried, “enough! Yes, 
Octave, I have been guilty, frightfully 
guilty, but not as you believe.” 

“ Why do you attempt to defend your- 
self? ” 

“ Because it is my duty to defend Sa- 
bine.” 

The count shrugged his shoulders dis- 
dainfully. 

“ It would have been better to have 
thought of this earlier,” he answered; 
“it would have been better to have watched 


THE SLAVES OF PAHIS. 


73 


the development of her character, to show 
her what was right and noble, and to have 
learned to read her young heart — to be 
her mother, in a word.” 

The countess was so agitated that her 
husband looked at her in cold surprise. 

“Ah I Octave,” she cried, “why. did 

ou not speak sooner, if you knew? But 

will tell you everything, everything.” 

But the count, unfortunately, stopped 
her. 

“ Spare both of us these explanations,” 
he said; “if I have at last broken the 
long siience of years, it is because I know 
that nothing you could say now could 
touch or move me.” 

Madame de Mussidan fell back on the 
sofa, realizing that there was no longer 
any hope. 

In the card-room all was silent ; Sabine 
had dragged herself to her own room. 

The count was about to take refuge in 
his library, when a servant appeared with 
a letter. De Mussidan broke the seal. 
The letter was from Monsieur de Breulh ; 
he asked to be released from his promise. 
After so many shocks this blow prostrated 
the count, for he saw in it the hand of the 
man who had come to him with menaces, 
and he was terrified at the mysterious 
power of the people of whom he was the 
slave. But he had little time for reflec- 
tion, for at that moment, Modeste, his 
daughter's /emme de chambre^ rushed into 
the salon : 

“Help!” she cried. “Help! Made- 
moiselle is dying ! ” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 

Van Klopen, the “ Tailor for ladies,” 
knew Paris — men and things — thor- 
oughly. Like all of those tradespeople 
whose operations are based on large cred- 
its, he had need of varied information on 
people and their fortunes — real and pros- 
pective. He never forgot anything he 
heard, and, moreover, arranged all his de- 
tails after a method of his own, which 
made it easy for him to get at any fact he 
wished to use. Thus, when Mascarot 
spoke to him of the father of the pretty 
brunette, Plavia, whose beauty had made 
such havoc with the impressionable Paul 
Violaine, the glass of fashion had replied 
without hesitation : 

“Martin Regal? Yes, I know him; a 
banker.” 

And a banker Martin Regal was, to be 
sure. He resided in a superb house in the 
Rue Montmartre ; his private rooms were 
on the second floor, while his offices occu- 
pied the first. 

Although Regal’s name might not have 
been found in the golden books of the 
financial aristocracy, the banker was, 
nevertheless, tlib roughly respected. 

His relations were principally with those 


petty tradespeople who form so large a 
circle in Paris, who “ get along,” rather 
than live, and who would be very happy 
if it were not for that ever-recurring and 
implacable phantom of notes to meet. 

The banker held almost all these persons 
with whom he had business relations in 
the hollow of his hand, as it were. What 
would become of them should he, some 
fine morning, take it into his head to close 
his doors? They could not meet their en- 
gagements; judgments would be issued; 
failure and ruin would follow. He wields 
this power in the most arbitrary manner, 
and allows no questionings. If some au- 
dacious new-comer, in the face of some 
desperate measure, ventures to say “Why?” 
the answer is “ Because,” pure and sim- 
ple. It is the cashier, be it understood, 
who makes this ambiguous reply ; for the 
banker himself is hardly ever seen. 

In the morning he is always invisible — 
shut out in his private office — and not one 
of the clerks could have been found with 
sufficient courage to knock at the door. 
Had they done so, no reply would have 
been elicited. The experiment had been 
tried, and it was believed that nothing 
short of a cry of fire would have aroused 
him. 

The banker is a large man, and very 
bald. His face, with its high cheek bones, 
is always scrupulously shaven, and his 
little gray eyes twinkle with a restless 
light. When he is talking, if he is in doubt 
in regard to a choice of words — or if one 
escapes him — he rubs his nose with the 
forefinger of his right hand. His polite- 
ness is absolutely perfect. In the most 
honied tones he says the most cruel things, 
and invariably escorts to the door, with 
reiterated excuses and bows, the people to 
whom he refuses a loan. In his costume 
he affects a certain youthful elegance 
which belongs to the rising school of 
money lenders. Outside of his business 
he is amiable, obliging, and some say witty. 
Neither, it is said, does he despise those 
sweetnesses of life which enable us to travel 
through this vale of tears. He by no 
means despises a good dinner, and never 
turns his back on a young and pretty face. 
He is, however, a widower, and has but 
one serious passion in the world — his only 
child — Fla via. It is true, that in his pas- 
sion there is one fanatical trait — that of 
the Indian who crushes everything under 
the chariot-wheels of his idol. 

The establishment is not on the most 
liberal terms, but in the Quartier it is said 
that Mademoiselle Flavia can dispose of 
millions. The banker, himself, always 
walks ; it is more healthy, he says ; but 
his daughter has a pretty carriage, and 
drives two fine horses in the Bois under 
the protection of a duenna, who is half 
servant, half companion, and who is driven 
to the verge of distraction by Flavia’s cap- 
rices. Her father has never yet ventured 


74 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


i 


to deny her anything. Sometimes a kind 
friend has pointed out to him that this 
perpetual adoration may ill fit Flavia for 
the future. Upon this point he is intract- 
able, and invariably replies that he knows 
what he is doing; and that if he works 
like a dog, it is simply that his daughter 
may have all that she wants in this world. 

It is certain that he does more work than 
all his employes put together. After hav- 
ing spent the morning at his desk — over 
a pile of books and papers — at four in the 
evening he opens his office doors, and re- 
ceives all who come to see him on business. 

On the day after that on which Paul Vi- 
olaine and Flavia had met at the celebrated 
tailor's, about half-past five in the after- 
noon, Monsieur Marti a Regal gave audi- 
ence to one of his clients. She was pretty, 
very pretty, young, and dressed with the 
most excessive simplicity; but she was 
very sad, and her beautiful eyes were 
swimming with tears which she with diffi- 
culty prevented from falling. 

‘‘I must acknowledge to you, sir,” she 
said, that if you refuse to renew this 
note, we are ruined. I can manage its 
payment in January. I have disposed of 
all my je wels, and we are living on credit.” 

Poor little woman! ” interrupted the 
banker. 

These compassionate words raised her 
hopes. 

•‘And yet,” added she, “ our trade has 
never been so good; new customers are 
constantly coming in. Quick sales and 
small profits is our motto.” 

She expressed herself in such clear 
terms that Monsieur Regal listened with 
pleasure. A real Parisian woman shines in 
a position of this kind; less easily dis- 
couraged than her husband, and more full 
of confidence in herself, she keeps a steady 
head when he would lose his. 

As he heard this explanation of a situa- 
tion which he thoroughly understood, the 
banker nodded his bald head. 

“That is very well,” he said, finally; 
“ but that does not make the endorsements 
you offer me higher in value. If I had any 
confidence, it would be in you.” 

••But, sir, we have more than thirty 
thousand francs’ worth of goods in the 
establishment.” 

“ It is not that which I mean.” 

He accompanied these words with a 
smile and a look so singularly expressive 
that the poor woman colored to the roots 
of her hair, and almost lost her self- 
possession. 

“ Do you not understand,” he said, 
“ that your merchandise inspires me with 
no more confidence than the endorsements 
you offer? Suppose, for example, that 
you should fail, the proprietors of the 
hotel would seize everything for their 
claims, for their privileges are enor- 
mous ” 

He interrupted himself. Flavia’ s maid, | 


profiting by the despotism of her mistress, 
entered without knocking. 

•‘ Sir,” she said, “ mademoiselle wants 
you at once.” 

The banker rose immediately. 

“ I am coming! ” he exclaimed: “ I am 
coming ! ” And taking the hand of his 
client, to conduct her to the door, he said : 
•• Do not be unhappy, we will arrange all 
these difficulties. Come again, and we 
will talk the matter over.” 

She wished to thank him, but he was by 
that time half up the staircase. 

Flavia had sent for her father, that he 
might admire her new toilette, which had 
just come from Van Klopen's which she 
was trying on, and with which she was 
hugely delighted. 

Flavia’s costume was one of those chef- 
P oeuvres of bad taste — fashionable bad 
taste, be it understood — that gives to 
every woman precisely the same odious 
eff'ect, making them all look like dolls, and 
robbing them of all individuality, distinc- 
tion and grace. There was a mass of fiut- 
ings and puffings, of flounces and fringes, 
of different tints and colors, oddly con- 
trasted. Van Klopen has been faithful to 
his system — for he has a system — which 
can be summed up in two axioms : 

First : To cut each dress in such a way 
that when ripped it shall be utterly use- 
less. 

Second : To sell the materials at a very 
low profit, which delights the husbands, 
and multiply the trimmings. 

More than one dressmaiver has profited 
by the same theory. 

Flavia cared nothing, however, for the 
economical side of the question. Stand- 
ing in the centre of the salon, where every 
caudle was lighted — for the day was fad- 
ing — she was deep in the study of new 
combinations and effects. She was so 
deliciously dainty in her prettiness, so 
delicate and graceful, that her beauty was 
not dimmed by this costume of Van Klo- 
pen's. Suddenly she turned. In the mir- 
ror she had caught a glimpse of her 
father, who appeared entirely ^ out of 
breath from having rushed up the stairs 
so quickly. 

"How long you have been! ” she said. 
He had not, however, lost one second; 
nevertheless, he made apologies with ner- 
vous haste. 

“I was with a client,” he said. “ So 
that ” 

•‘You ought to have sent him away at 
once.” 

He attempted another explanation, but 
the young girl was not satisfied ; 

••Look, father!” she exclaimed. “I 
accept your apologies ; but look now, open 
your eyes very wide. Look at me, and tell 
me frankly how you think I look.” 

There was no need of asking. The most 
absolute unquestioning admiration ap- 
I peared upon his face. 


THE SLA VE8 OF PARIS. 


75 


Charming ! ” he murmured ; divine ! ” 

Accustomed as she was to the perfume 
of this patei-nal praise, Flavia yet appeared 
quite enchanted. 

‘'“Then.” she said, "*you think that’ T 
shall please him.” 

The him” was Paul Violaine: this the 
banker knew only too well. He sighed 
deeply, as he answered : 

‘^How is it possible that you cannot 
please him? ” 

Alas ! ” she answered, half sadly, if 
it was any one else, I should not have a 
doubt, nor one of these cruel misgivings 
that now disturb my peace.” 

Monsieur Martin Kegal seated himself 
near the chimney ; he put his arm around- 
his daughter’s waist, and, drawing her 
toward him, pressed a kiss on her brow, 
and she, with a coquettish, feline grace, 
glided to a seat on his knee. 

Suppose,” she continued, ‘‘ that he 
should not like me. Just think of that, 
father! I should die of sorrow.” 

The banker turned away his head to con- 
ceal the sadness of his face. 

Do you love him already? ” 

She ht'sitated. 

More than me?” he added. 

Flavia took her father's head between 
her hands and shook it gently, as she said, 
with a clear, bell-like laugh : 

‘"Oh, how stupid you are, poor papa! 
How can I say? I love you first, because 
you are my father. I love you, too, be- 
cause you are good, because you always 
do precisely as I wish, because you always 
tell me you love me, because you are like 
the enchanters in fairv-land, you know — 
they are old, very old, and have beards, 
and always give their god-children every- 
thing they want. I love you for all the 
happiness you give me : for my carriage, 
for iny pretty horses, and my beautiful toil- 
ettes, for the bright gold pieces you give 
me, for my pearl necklace, and my new 
bracelets.” 

The enumeration was desolating. Each 
word betrayed her absolute and intolerable 
selfishness; and yet the banker listened 
with a smile, charmed and delighted. 

“ And you love him because ” 

“Because,” said Flavia, suddenly be- 
noming very serious — “because I love 
him ; first, because he is himself, and then 
— and then — I love him ! ” 

The girl’s tone betrayed such intensity 
of passion that the poor father with diffi- 
oulty restrained a groan of despair. 

She saw the expression of his face, and 
burst out laughing. 

“ You are jealous, I do verily believe,” 
she exclaimed, in that tone that one adopts 
toward a child who has committed some 
trifling fault ; “that is very naughty, sir! 
You do not even like that window, because 
I first saw Paul from that window! ” 

Still, like the scolded child, the father 
dropped liis head. 


“All! well.” resumed Flavia, “I love 
this window, which recalls to me the 
sweetest emotions of my life. It was four 
months ago. I had gone to the window, 
for I know not what reason, and yet we 
are told that we are the masters of our 
own destinies. What utter nonsense! I 
looked out mechanically, when suddenly, 
in a window of a house just opposite, I 
saw him. It was absolutely like a flash of 
lightning. But that one second decided 
my life. I, who never felt a thrill here 
before — ” she laid her hand on her heart 
— “now felt the most intolerable sharp 
pain, like a red hot iron.” 

The banker seemed to be in pain, but 
his daughter saw nothing of it. 

“All day long,'’ she continued, “it 
seemed to me that there was no air to 
breathe; that there was an immense 
weight on my heart, and that there was 
a band of iron around my he id. It was 
not blood that circulated through my 
veins, it was liquid fire. At night I could 
not sleep, 1 shivered with cold and a name- 
less dread.” 

The banker shook his head sadly. 

“ Flavia, poor, foolish child!” he said, 
“ why did you not confide in me then? ’’ 

“ I wanted to do so, papa, but I was 
afraid.” 

Monsieur Regal raised his eyes in mute 
surprise to the ceiling, calling silently on 
Heaven as a witness that this fear of his 
child was utterly without foundation. 

“ You do not understand this ! ” said 
Flavia, “you are the best of fathers, but 
you are a man; if I had a mother she 
would understand.” 

“ Ah ! what could your poor mother have 
done that I have omitted?” sighed the 
banker. 

“ Nothing, probably, for there are days 
when I hai'dly understand myself, and yet 
I have been very, very firm and courage- 
ous since then, for I swore to myself that 
never again would I open that window. 
For three daj-s I resisted every temptation, 
on the fourth, I looked out, and there he 
was, looking as sad as possible, leaning 
with his forehead on the window-pane — I 
turned away and began to oy. After that,” 
continued Flavia with a tender inflection 
in her voice, “I resisted no longer; why 
contend against destiny ? Each day I went 
to the window. It did not take me long 
to discover w^hat he was doing there; I 
soon found that he was givitig lessons to 
two tall, thin girls that I had often seen in 
the street. Poor fellow! I watched him 
every day as he w^ent in and came out of 
the house. Ah! papa, if you only knew 
how sad he looked; sometimes he was 
deadly pale, and so weak, that I could not 
but think that he had not sufficient food. 
Think of it! He suffering with hunger, 
and I so rich! I learned to know every 
expression in his face, and found, when he 
was happy, he made this gesture,” and she 


76 


THE SLAVES OF FARIS. 


imitated one with which all Paul’s friends 
were familiar. 

“ But one day, alas ! ” continued Flavia, 
“he disappeared. For a whole day I re- 
mained at that window, waiting and hop- 
ing all in vain ; and then I fell ill, as you 
know, and told you all, and said, besides, 
that I would never marry any other man.” 

It was in gloom and sadness that the 
banker listened to her narrative which, 
however, was by no means new to him. 

“ Yes,” he murmured, “ this all came to 
pass just as you. say. You we? e ill, and I 
thought dying, when I promised that I 
would seek out this unknown, whose very 
name you had never heard ” 

The girl interrupted him by a burst of 
joy. She threw her arms around his neck, 
and pressed kiss after kiss on his broad 
forehead. 

“ And so,” she exclaimed, “ you cured 
me I And you will keep your word, dear 
papa, will you not? Darling! I love you 
more for this than for anything else in the 
world. You promised to go that very 
day, did you not, and find this mysterious 
artist? ” 

“ Alas ! my child, I am your slave ! ” 

Flavia drew herself up, and gayly shak- 
ing her dainty little fist at her father, 
said : 

“What does that ‘alas!’ mean, sir?” 
she asked, with a pretty affectation of 
sternness. “Is it that you regret your 
goodness and your obedience?” 

He did not answer, for she was correct 
in her surmises. 

“I would give my prettiest necklace,” 
cried Flavia, "‘to know what means you 
took to find out about him, for you never 
told me the smallest detail. How do you 
mtend to bring him here without arousing 
lis suspicions? ” 

Her father smiled a kindly smile. ' ‘ That 
ittle one, is my secret,” he answered. 

“Very well; keep it. I care little for 
ihe means now that I know that you were 
successful, for to-night — just think of it 
— to-night, perhaps in an hour, perhaps in 
a few minutes. Dr. Hortebise will bring 
him here, and he will sit at our table where 
^ can look at him at my ease. I shall hear 
aim speak ” 

“ Silly little girl,” interrupted the 
Banker. “ Unhappy child.” 

She looked at him and answered ear- 
nestly : 

“ Silly — yes — but why should you call 
me unhappy? ” 

“You ‘ove him too much,” said her 
father, “ anJ he will take advantage of it.” 

“Ah! ” saia the girl, in a tone of pro- 
found conviction. “ I^ever ! ” 

“I hope to God, my darling! that my 
presentiments deceive me. But he is not 
the sort of man I intended for you. He is 
an artist ” 

Flavia, this time really angry, rose from 
her father’s knee. | 


“ And is that anything against him ? An 
artist ! From your tone, one would think 
that a crime. He is an artist, to be sure, 
but he is a genius. I can see that in his 
face. He is poor, I know, but I am rich 
enough for both. He will owe everything 
tome — so much the better then. When 
my fortune is his, he will not be compelled 
to give lessons on the piano-forte, he can 
make a worthier use of his talents. He 
will write operas more beautiful than Gou- 
nod’s. They will be sung, and the theatres 
will be crowded. And I will be in the 
back of my loge, and shall glory in the 
choice of my heart — to the world will be- 
long the poetry, but the poet will be my 
own. And if I choose, he shall sing his 
divine songs for me alone.” 

She was in such a state of extraordinary 
exaltation, and seemed to be so impressed 
by the reality of the scene her words had 
depicted, that the excitement brought on a 
cough, which seemed to rend her delicate 
chest. 

Her father looked at her with a heart- 
broken expression. 

Flavia’s mother had been taken away at 
twenty-four by that implacable malady 
popularly known as a “galloping con- 
sumption,” and which is the despair of 
modern science, and which in less than a 
month transforms a blooming young girl 
into a cold and motionless form. 

“Are you in pain, Flavia?” asked the 
banker, in a tone that betrayed the anxiety 
he felt. 

“ I7o,” she said, “ I am not in pain; but 
to suffer for him would be joy ! ” 

“ By the sun in heaven,” cried the bank- 
er, “ if that wretch ever makes you shed 
a tear he is a dead man ! ” 

The girl looked startled at the fierceness 
of histone. “What is it, dear father?” 
she asked. “ What have I said to make 
you so angry? Why do you call Paul a 
wretch? ” 

“ Because,” answered the banker, unable 
to restrain himself — “ because I tremble 
for you. He has robbed me of my child’s 
heart, and I cannot forgive him because 
you are happier with him than with your 
old father. I am frightened, because, if 
you do not know him, I do. From that 
hour when you pointed him out to me in 
the crowd, all my friends, all the people 
who are under obligations to me, have 
watched him. From that moment spies 
have followed him night and day. I have 
not been satisfied with knowing all the de- 
tails of his present life ; I have made inqui- 
ries in regard to his past. He has hardly 
had a thought that I have not known, 
hardly uttered a word that has not been 
brought to me. I have studied him faith- 
fully, or rather my friends have studied him 
with the greatest possible care.” 

“ And you have found nothing against 
him? ” 

“ No, nothing! He is only weaker than 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


77 


the veriest twig that grows, and more in- 
constant than the last withered leaf that 
is blowm by the faintest breeze! No, 
nothing ! But he is one of those neutral 
characters, as undecided for good as for 
evil, who go wherever they are bid, with- 
out aid or aim, without energy and without 
will.” 

‘‘ So much the better. My will will be 
his.” 

Her father smiled drearily. 

“You are mistaken, my daughter, as 
many another woman has been before you. 
You all think that weak characters — those 
that are timid and vacillating — are easily 
governed. Let me assure you that this is 
a great mistake. It is only strong charac- 
ters that can be influenced, and only upon 
solid foundations that we lean for support. 
Shut your hand on a bit of marble, close 
it firmly, and it is still there. Do the 
same with a mass of sand, and it slips 
through your fingers.” 

Flavia did not open her lips : her father 
drew her again gently on his knee. 

“Listen to me, little one — to your old 
father.” he said, solemnly. “ You will 
never have a better friend than he. You 
know that every drop of blood in my veins 
would be gladly shed if it would do you 
any good. Paul is coming; be prudent. 
Be careful that a momentary illusion, a 
passing fancy ” 

“Oh! papa.” 

“ Very well : but heed what I say. Ee- 
member that your happiness depends upon 
your conduct now. Be careful and dis- 
simulate your feelings. Do not let men 
suspect your preference. Mon are so made 
that, while they find fault with women for 
their duplicity, they complain still more of 
their frankness. Trust in my experience.* 
Eemember that absolute security kill’s a 
man’s love, and even a woman’s.” 

He stopped, for the sound of a bell was 
heard — that of the door of their apart- 
ment. Flavia’ s heart gave a great leap, 
and her whole body vibrated like the bell 
itself. 

“ It is he! ” she gasped, and struggling 
for composure, she added: “I wall obey 
you, dear father ; I will not appear until I 
have regained my self-control and these 
persons have arrived. Do not be anxious ; 
I intend to prove to you that your daughter 
can be as good an actress as other women. 

She fled as the door of the salon opened. 
But it was not Paul who entered. The 
first arrivals were friends of the house — a 
stout manufacturer and his wife, exquis- 
itely dressed, but otherwise totally insig- 
nificant. For that evening the banker had 
invited a party of twenty. This number 
of persons explained and justified an 
invitation to Paul, who at this moment ap- 
peared with Dr. Hortebise, the god-father, 
who was to open to him the doors of 
society. Paul was not like himself; he 
had just left the hands of a fashionable 


tailor, and it was this that had delayed 
him. Thanks to the influence of Masca- 
rot, this tailor had, in forty-eight hours, 
gotten up an evening suit in- such perfec- 
tion of cut and fabric, that at the first 
glance an observer would have suspected 
that an affair of importance was on hand, 
possibly a contemplated marriage. 

Paul was somewhat ill at ease under this 
unwonted elegance, but at his age this 
embarrassment could easily be mistaken 
for timidity, and made him, under that 
aspect, even more interesting. 

He, however, was so imposing in his ap- 
pearance that the physician, on seeing 
him, gave an approving nod. 

“ Flavia’s taste is to be decidedly com- 
mended,” he murmured. Then interrupt- 
ing Paul, who was apologizing for being 
so late, “ There is no harm done,” he said 
— “sit down, and I will be ready pres- 
ently.” 

Hortebise went into his dressing room, 
while Paul Violaine threw himself on the 
lounge. He was utterly worn out with 
fatigue — for five mights he had had no 
sleep. Each night he had been devoured 
by fever, and had arisen and paced the 
room, a prey to anxieties and mental tor- 
ture. 

His honesty, of which he had made such 
a boast to Eose, had been weighed in the 
balance and found wanting. When, on 
leaving Van Klopen, Paul had said to 
Mascarot: “ I am yours,” he had but 
obeyed the impulse of wounded vanity. 
He had, moreover, been dazzled by Mas- 
carot’s mysterious power, by Flavia’s 
beauty, and fascinated by the report of 
her millions of dowry. That evening, 
however, when again alone, he was terri- 
fied at the remembrance of his imprudence 
and thought with dread of the demands 
which might be made upon him. The 
next day he dined with Hortebise, and the 
certainty of the assistance of this excel- 
lent man in any or all of the projects in 
contemplation, decided him to stifle these 
last pangs of an expiring conscience. It 
is often thus; vice, or crime even, may be 
a temptation or a lesson, according to the 
sphere in which it is beheld. 

Low, vulgar and coarse, it repels and 
strengthens one against temptation. 
Prosperous and triumphant, it awakens in 
feeble natures mad longings and an almost 
certainty of impunity. 

The luxurious surroundings of the phy- 
sician, his air of a man of the world, his 
ingenious paradoxes and contempt of the 
law all finished the belittling and corrup- 
tion of Paul’s character. 

“ I should be a fool,” thought Paul, “ if 
I hesitated or 'Struggled longer, when this 
physician whom I see rich, happy, and re- 
spected, has no scruples.” 

He would have hesitated, however, had 
he known what was enclosed in that gold 
medallion which dangled on the watch- 


78 


THU SLAVES OF PAMS. 


guard of his new associate and patron. 
But this Paul could not know, admitted as 
he was for the first time to the doctor’s 
magnificent apartment, which was the en- 
tire first floor of a fine old house in the 
Rue du Luxembourg. In the very ante- 
chamber an acute observer would have 
seen indications of the selfishness, the ex- 
pensiveness and cleverness of the occupant 
who regarded no time or money wasted 
which contributed to his own comfort or 
well being. 

“I mean to live like that,” said Paul to 
himself, his very vitals gnawed by the 
demon of jealousy and envy. 

The doctor reappeared, as carefully 
dressed as was his custom. 

I am ready,” he said to Mascarot’s pro- 
tege, now his own. “ Come, we shall ar- 
rive on the minute.” 

At the door was the doctor’s coup6, 
drawn by one superb trotter; and as he 
settled himself among the cushions, Paul 
again said to himself : ‘T will have a coupe 
like this.” 

But while the young man thought thus 
vaguely of the future, the doctor, who 
had secured his, was wide awake. 

‘‘ Let us have a few words of conversa- 
tion now,” said Hortebise, as the carriage 
started. You are now offered an oppor- 
tunity such as rarely falls in the way of 
any young man, of whatever social con- 
nections ; you must be sure and take ad- 
vantage of it.” 

That I will do, you may be quite sure,” 
replied Paul, with a self-satisfied smile. 

‘‘Bravo! my dear boy; I worship your 
youthful audacity, only you must permit 
me to fortify it with my experience. And 
to begin with, do you really know what 
an heiress is?” 

‘‘I think ” 

“ Let me go on, if you please. An heir- 
ess — and still more if she is an only child 
— is generally an extremely disagreeable 
young person, headstrong, capricious, and 
filled by a sense of her own importance. 
She is completely spoiled, moreover, by 
the adulation to which from infancy she 
has been accustomed. Certain of suitors be- 
cause of her dowry, she thinks she may do, 
or leave undone, everything she pleases.” 

Oh ! ” said Paul, singularly crestfallen 
by this description, ’‘is it possible that 
this is Mademoiselle Flavia’s portrait that 
you are sketching?” 

The doctor laughed. “ Ts’ot precisely,” 
he answered, “ only I ought to warn you 
that our heiress has" her fancies and whims. 
“I believe her, for example, quite capable 
of doing her best to win the heart of an 
aspirant for her favor, and then, quietly 
turn a cold shoulder upon him, open her 
eyes in sui’prise, and calmly dismiss him ! 

Paul, who up to this moment, had seen 
only the bright side of this adventure, was 
overwhelmed at this reverse, of which he 
had not once thought. 


“If this be so,'' he said sadly, “why 
should you present me.” 

“ So that you may succeed. Have you 
not ever}^ requisite for success? It may 
be that Mademoiselle Flavia will receive 
jmu with extreme cordiality, nevertheless, 
do not draw from this any favorable con- 
clusions. Even if she should fairly throw 
herself at your head, I should still say be- 
ware; it may be only a snare. Between 
ourselves, a girl who possesses a million 
is quite excusable in seeking to discover 
whether it is to her money or herself that 
you have lost your hearr.” 

The carriage stopped ; they had reached 
the Rue Montmartre. After having given 
his coachman an order to return at mid- 
night, the doctor, Avith his protege, entered 
the house. Paul was so agitated that he 
with difficulty drew on his gloves. 

There were fifteen persons present when 
the footman announced Dr. Hortebise and 
Monsieur Paul Violaine. How ver great 
might have been the banker's detestation 
of the man chosen by his daughter, there 
was no indication of it in his reception. 

After having pressed the hand of his old 
friend, the doctor, he thanked him for 
bringing his young friend. 

This reception in some degree restored 
Paul’s self-possession. He was amazed, 
however, at the non-appearance of the 
young lady of the house. 

The dinner was for seven. Just five 
minutes before this hour Flavia appeared 
and was at once surrounded by the guests. 
Her emotions were under control — not an 
eyelash quivered, not a change in her color 
— when, as her eyes rested on Paul, he 
bowed profoundly. 

• Her father was delighted, for he had by 
no means anticipated so much self-posses- 
sion. 

But Flavia had thought much of his 
words, and recognized their justice. Seated 
with the length of the table between them, 
she courageously abstained from even one 
glance in his direction. 

After dinner, when the whist-tables 
were made up, Flavia dared to approach 
Paul, and in a low voice, that trembled in 
spite of herself, she asked him if he would 
not kindly play upon the piano something 
of his own composition. 

Paul was an indifferent performer, but 
Flavia listened in a state of beatitude, 
while her father and Dr. Hortebise, seated 
near her, watched her with sympathetic 
solicitude. 

“ How she loves him ! ” murmured the 
banker ; “ and yet we know nothing of the 
effect she has produced upon him. 

“Pshaw! Mascarot will draw it all out 
of him to-morrow.” 

The banker made no reply, and the doc- 
tor resumed: 

“ To-morrow that poor man will have 
his hands full. At t6n o’clock a council- 
general — then we shall get at the bottom 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS, 


79 


of Catenae’s plans. I am curious, too, to 
find out what Croisenois will say when he 
discovers what is expected of him.” 

Meanwhile the hour was growing late, 
and the guests retired one by one. The 
doctor made a sign to his protege, and they 
left together. Flavia, as she had prom- 
ised, had played her part so well, that 
Paul asked himself whether he had most 
to hope or fear. 

CHAPTER XV. 

TOTO-CHUPIN. 

When Mascarot called a solemn council 
of his associates, Beaumarchef was in the 
habit of attiring himself in his very best 
array. 

Beyond the fact that he was often called 
into the room to answer questions, he was 
deeply impressed by the importance of the 
occasion, and by a sense of the duty he 
owed to his employers and to himself. 
He reserved for these great days his most 
beautiful re^mental pantaloons, laid in 
plaits over his hips ; a black coat, fitting 
with extreme tightness around his waist, 
and the full chest of which he was so proud ; 
and finally, his boots, armed with enor- 
mous spurs. His moustache also was 
most carefully w’axed and blackened, and 
drawn to those same fine points which had 
pierced so many feminine hearts in these 
days. 

-On this occasion, however, this sub- 
officer, although he had received due notice 
of the expected meeting, was still in his 
every day costume. He was seriously dis- 
turbed by it, and found his only consola- 
tion in the constant repetition to himself 
that this irreverence was entirely involun- 
tary. It was the truth, moreover, at 
daybreak he had been aroused to make out 
the bills of two cooks, who, having found 
situations, were about to leave the estab- 
lishment which Mascarot had organized 
for servants while out of place. This 
matter successfully brought to a conclu- 
sion he hoped to have a half hour leisure, 
when, as he crossed the court-yard he met 
Toto-Chiipin. who came with his day’s re- 
port, which Beaumarchef presumed would 
be, as usual, only a matter of some minutes ; 
he was very much mistaken ! 

If in Toto thei-e was but little change — 
if he still wore his gray blouse, and his 
banged up cap, and knowing grin — his 
ideas were considerably modified. When 
Beaumarchef begged the lad to hasten his 
request, it was received with such sulki- 
ness that the sub-officer was much amused. 

“ I have not wasted my time,” he mut- 
tered; “I have even made some new dis- 
coveries, only before telling you one word 
” he hesitated. 

“ Well, go on.” 

“ I wish to make my conditions.” 

This remark utterly bewildered his 
hearer. 


Conditions?” he repeated. 

“ Certainly — you can do as you please, 
of course; you can take it or leave it. 
Ho jmu think that I am going to work like 
a dog, lose my sleep and all that, for a 
mere thank you? I am worth more than 
that.” 

Beaumarchef was exasperated. 

“ I know that you are not worth the salt 
to your bread,” he exclaimed. 

All right.” 

‘‘ And you are an ungrateful little 
scamp, to talk in this way after all the 
goodness shown to you by your master.” 

Chupin burst out laughing. 

‘^Goodness! indeed!” he cried. ‘‘One 
would think that my employer had ruined 
himself for me. Poor man ! I should like 
to know what this wonderful goodness 
is.” 

“He picked you up in the street one 
night in a storm, and has given you a room 
in the house ever since.” 

“ A kennel, you had best call it.” 

“ He gives you your breakfast and your 
dinner every day ” 

“ I know that, and a half bottle of wine 
at each meal that has been so well watered 
that it can’t even stain the table-cloth I ” 

“You are an 'ungrateful boy,” ex- 
claimed Beaumarchef; “you forget alsa 
that you have been set up in business as a 
chestnut vender.” 

^ “Yes, under the porte-cochere I am 
allowed to stand from morning till night, 
frozen on one side, baked on the other, and 
get for this, perhaps twenty sous.” 

“You know, too, that in summer you 
will have given to you all you need to 
sell — fried potatoes.” 

“ Thank you; I do not like the smell of 
the fat.” 

“ What, then, do you wish to do?” 

“ Nothing — I feel that I was born to be 
a real estate owner.” 

Beaumarchef glared at the unabashed 
youth, and ended by saying that he should 
repeat all that had been said to his master. 
This threat, however, made no impression. 

“I have some business with Monsieur 
Mascarot, and intend to see him myself to- 
day.” 

“ You are a fool! ” 

“ Wh3'- am I a fool? and why am I un- 
grateful? Ho you think I never had any- 
thing to eat before? I lived better, let me 
tell you, and I was free ; I did not even 
beg ; I just sang under the windows and 
in front of the theatres, and easily made 
my three francs per day. My friends and 
I drank them up pretty quick, to be sure, 
and then we went off to the theatre. 
Sometimes we went to Ivry, and slept in 
an old manufactory there, where the po- 
lice never put their noses. In the winter 
it was pretty comfortable there — by those 
furnaces. Ah, I had good times in those 
days. While now ” 

“ Well ! ' What you are grumbling about 


80 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


now? Don’t I give you every day when 
you are on duty a five-franc piece? ” 

‘‘But that is not enough, sir — not 
enough. Come, you need not take the 
trouble to fiy into a passion. I do not 
wish to quarrel about the matter. I merely 
ask lor an increase of salary. You need 
only to say yes or no. If no, I have only 
to resign my situation.” 

Beaumarchef would most gladly have 
given a five-franc piece from his own 
pocket to have had Mascarot hear Chupin’s 
impertinence. 

“You are a rascal!” he cried, “and 
you keep bad company. You need not 
deny it. A disreputable looking fellow 
called Polyte has been here to ask for you. 
I am sure ” 

“ In the first place,” interrupted Toto- 
Chupin, “ the company I keep is absolutely 
none of your business.” 

“Very well. I give you fair warning 
that you will come to grief.” 

This prediction sounded like a threat. 
“How?” he answered, angrily — “how 
can I come to grief? Do you mean that 
Monsieur Mascarot will interfere? Pshaw! 
I’ll engage to keep him quiet.” 

“Toto! ” 

“ I wish that both of you would mind 
your own affairs. I am tired to death of 
you and your master. Do you think that 
I believe in the generosity of either of you? 
Do you think that I do not know what you 
are about? When you send me to follow 
this one or that one all about for a week, 
it is not, I am inclined to believe, to carry 
a blessing to their homes. If evil comes 
of it to me at any time, I have only to tell 
the truth before a judge to come off scot 
free. You will find out then that the 
work I have done is worth more than five 
francs per diem.” 

Beaumarchef was an old soldier and a 
brave man, but he was easil}'' disconcerted. 
Toto’s surprising impudence led him to 
believe that the youth was controlled by 
some experienced counsellor. If this was 
was so it would be impossible to calculate 
the result of these menaces. Xot having 
any idea how to act under these difficult 
circumstances, and afraid to move without 
a consultation with his superior, Beau- 
marchef thought it prudent to draw in his 
horns slightly. 

“You want — how much?” he said, at 
last. 

“ Well ! I should say seven francs to be- 
gin with? ” 

“The devil you do! Seven francs per 
day ! Upon my word you are cool indeed ! 
Very well, I will give it to you to-day, un- 
til 1 can lay your pretensions before the 
master.” 

“ You won’t make me open my lips to- 
day for twenty sous, I can tell you that,” 
answered the youth, with the most inso- 
lent disdain. “ If you wish me to speak 
you must give me a hundred francs down ! ” 


“A hundred francs!” answered Beau- 
marchef, nearly petrified with horror. 

“ Yes, just that, neither more or less.” 

“ And what will you give in return ? — no, 
said Beaumarchef, shrugging his should- 
ers; “your demand is utterly preposter- 
ous. Besides, what could you do with 
that much money? ” 

“ Never you mind that. One thing is 
certain: I shall not spend it in buying 
pomade like that you put on your mous- 
tache.” 

Impudent Chupin! he dared to attack 
that sacred moustache, and consequently 
was about To receive the kick he so richly 
deserved, when in came Father Tantaine, 
looking just as he did when he made his 
appearance before Paul in his attack. He 
wore the same long overcoat, shiny from 
long wear, and spotted with successive 
layers of grease and dust. His everlasting 
smile was on his withered lips. 

“ Tut tut ! ” he exclaimed ; “ never quar- 
rel with the doors open.” 

In his heart, Beaumarchef thanked the 
lucky star that had prevented his adminis- 
tration of summary justice, and sent him 
this unexpected reinforcement. He began, 
in a tone of indignation : 

“ Toto-Chupin, sir, pretends ” 

“I have heard every word,” interrupted 
Tantaine. 

On this, Toto concluded that he had bet- 
ter get outside of the door. The Parisian 
street boy is an acute observer ; necessity 
sharpens his natural powers of observation , 
and he becomes a no mean physiognomist. 

Toto-Chupin scarcely knew Mascarot; 
but he distrusted him, while he thoroughly 
despised Beaumarchef; but he trembled 
with abject fear before this sweet-spoken 
Tantaine, in whom he recognized a spirit 
that would bear no trifiing. 

He hastened, therefore, to offer his ex- 
cuses. “Just let me speak, sir,” he said. 
“ I only v/anted ” 

“ Money? Ah, that is but natural. And, 
upon my word, you are too useful for us 
to think of relinquishing your services. 
Come, Beaumarchef, hand this good boy 
the hundred francs he wants.” 

The clerk was astounded at this unheard- 
of generosity, and his lips parted with an 
objection; he was silenced by a gesture, 
which Toto, however, did not see. He un- 
locked the cash-box, therefore, and ex- 
tended his hand with the money. 

Toto looked at it, then at the faces of 
the two men, but did not dare take the 
money. Suppose they were mocking him ! 
Suppose that some snare was hidden there I 

“ Take them,” said Tantaine. “ If your 
information is worthless, I will reclaim 
them. So now follow me into the confes- 
sional, where we shall not be disturbed.” 

The confessional, as it was called in the 
office, was darkened by green curtains, 
and contained as furniture a low sofa, two 
arm-chairs, and a table. Tantaine seated 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


81 


himself, and turning toward Toto, who 
stood twirling his cap in his hands, said : 

I heard you.” 

The youth had by this time regained his 
habitual impertinence ; did he not feel the 
hundred francs burning in his pocket? 

Five days ago,” he began, I took 
Caroline Schemmel under my observation. 
I know everything about her now. That 
woman, sir, is a regular clock, and the 
little drinks she takes mark the hours.” 

Tantaine smiled. 

‘‘She rises,” continued Toto, “at ten 
o’clock, takes her absinthe ; breakfasts at 
the nearest restaurant, and has her petite 
heurre and her game of besique with any 
one who comes to hand. So much for the 
day. Then at six o’clock she goes to The 
Turks — a restaurant, sir, in the Rue des 
Poissonnier. Bless me ! what an establish- 
ment that is! You can dine, drink and 
dance just as much as you please — that is 
if they let you in.” 

“ Ah I And do they forbid you admit- 
tance?” 

Toto pointed to his rags, as he answered : 
“ Of course they won’t permit me to enter 
in this costume, but I have my plans all 
made. Just wait ! ” 

As they talked, Tantaine took the ad- 
dress of The Turk. When he had finished 
he looked up and said, severely : ‘' Do you 
think, Toto, this information is worth one 
hundred francs ? ” 

Toto made a grimace like a monkey. 
“Wait a moment,” he said. “Do you 
think that Caroline can live this sort of a 
life without money? And I have found 
out where that money comes from ! ” 

The semi-daylight of the confessional 
enabled Tantaine to conceal the intense 
satisfaction occasioned by these words. 

“Ah!” he answered, indifferently; 
“ you have learned that? ” 

“Yes, and several other things, too. 
Listen now! Yesterday, after breakfast, 
my beloved Caroline began to play cards 
with two individuals who had been eating 
at the next table. As soon as I saw the 
way they shuffled the cards 1 knew that 
they were old hands, and I said to myself, 
‘ Now my good woman, they are going to 
clean you out ! ’ I was right, too, and at 
the end of an hour she was compelled to 
offer the proprietor one of her rings as 
security for the breakfast she had eaten. 
He refused to take it, saying that he had 
confidence in her. Then she said, ‘ That 
is very good of you ; I will go to my room 
and come back.’ I saw her and heard 
her.” 

“ And she did not go to her room? ” 

“Not she! She went out, crossed the 
whole of Paris, and went at once to the 
very finest house on the Rue de Varennes 
— an absolute palace it was. She knocked, 
and then she went in. I waited, of 
course.” 

“ Do you know who lives in this house?” 


“ Of course I know. The grocer at the 
corner told me it belonged to the Due de 
— the Due de — wait a minute — the Due 
de Champdoce; yes, that is the name — a 
nobleman who has, they say, his cellars as 
full of gold as if they belonged to a bank.” 

Tantaine never was so indifferent in 
manner as when he was deeply interested. 

‘* You are a little tedious, my boy,” he 
said; “goon.” 

Toto, who had counted on making a 
great impression, was extremely ann 03 ^ed. 

“ Give me time,” he muttered. “ In 
about half an hour out came my Caroline 
as lively as you please. A carriage passed. 
She hailed it, and off she went. Luckily 
I have a good pair of legs, and I reached 
the Palais Royal just in time to see Caro- 
line stop at the broker’s and exchange 
two notes of two hundred francs each.” 

“ How did you find out that? ” 

“ By my eyes. The paper was yellow.” 

Tantaine smiled pleasantly. ‘‘You know 
bank notes, then? ” 

“Yes, when I see them ; but I never 
touched one. They say that they are as 
soft as satin. One day I went into an office 
and asked them just to let me take a bank- 
note in my hands. They said : ‘ Clear 
out ! ’ And then I asked them what busi- 
ness they had to make people curious by 
showing them such piles behind their glass 
windows.” 

But Tantaine was not listening, “ Is that 
all? ” he said. 

“Not quite — I have kept the best for 
the last. I wish to tell you that we are 
not the only persons who are watching 
Caroline.” 

This time Toto had every reason to be 
satisfied with the effect produced. The old 
man started so prodigiously that his hat 
tumbled off. 

“ What is that you say? ” he exclaimed. 

“ Simply, that for three days a big fel- 
low with a harp on his back has been at 
her heels. I distrusted him at once — and 
I was right. He followed the woman, just 
as 1 did, to this superb house.” 

Tantaine thought for a moment. 

“ A musician, was it? Ah ! I must know 
what this means. Now, Toto, hear me. 
Drop Caroline and stick to this harpist, 
and be prudent. Go, you have well earned 
your money.” 

Chupin went off. The old man shook 
his head. 

“ Too intelligent by half,” he muttered ; 
“ he will never make old bones.” 

Beaumarchef here opened his lips to 
speak to ask Tantaine to remain in the 
office while he changed his dress, but the 
old man prevented it by saying : 

“As the master does not like to be dis- 
turbed, I will just go in without knocking, 
and when these gentlemen arrive show 
them in at once, because you see, my good 
friend, the pear is ripe, so ripe that if not 
gathered it would decaj'' on the stem ! ” 


82 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

TURNING ^HE THUMB-SCREWS. 

It was Dr. Hortebise who was the first 
to keep the appointment given by Masca- 
rot to his honorable associates. To rise 
before ten o’clock was to him an insuffera- 
ble penance, from the shock of which he 
did not recover all day. But business was 
business, he said to himself. When he ap- 
peared, the agency was full of clients, 
which did not prevent the doctor from 
noticing the negligence of Beaumarchef’s 
dress. 

‘‘ Ah! ” said Hortebise, ‘‘ you have been 
tippling, I fear.” 

‘‘My master is within,” answered the 
wretched clerk, with an attempt at dignity 
and Monsieur Tantaine is with him.” 

A brilliant idea at this moment entered 
the doctor’s mind, but with great gravity, 
he said : 

‘ ‘ I shall be delighted to meet that most 
excellent old gentleman ! ” 
nevertheless, when he entered the inner- 
most sanctuary of the employment agency 
he found Mascarot alone, classifying those 
eternal square bits of paper. 

“ Well,” he said, “ what are the news? ” 
“ There are none.” 

“ Have you not seen Paul? ” 

“Xo.” 

“ Will he come?” 

“Yes.” 

The estimable agent is generally laconic, 
but never to this degree. 

“ What is the matter ?” asked the phy- 
sician : “ our greeting is absolutely fune- 
real. Are you ill?” 

“I am simply preoccupied — which is 
excusable on the eve of a decisive battle,” 
answered Mascarot. 

But he only told part of the truth ; there 
was something more which he did not 
wish to tell his friend. Toto-Chupin dis- 
turbed him. One fiaw, and the most solid 
axle ever cast shivers to atoms. Toto 
might be the grain of sand which , falling 
into the machine, stops its working and 
renders it worthless. Xow Mascarot was 
in search of a way of destroying this grain 
of sand. 

“ Pshaw I ” said the doctor, rattling his 
medallion as he spoke, “ we shall succeed. 
What is there to fear, after all? Resist- 
ance from Paul? ” 

Mascarot shrugged his shoulders dis- 
dainfully. “Paul may struggle a little,” 
he answered; “but I have decided, never- 
theless, that he shall assist at our seance 
to-day. The scene will be a stormy one, 
so prepare yourself. We might measure 
out the truth to him, as we would the 
drops of wine for an invalid, but I prefer 
a full dose.” 

“ The deuce you do ! Suppose he should 
take flight and disappear with our secret? ” 
“ He won't disappear in a hurry ! ” said 
Mascarot, in a tone that struck terror to 


the soul of his listener. “ He can’t escape 
from us any more than the cockchafer can 
get loose from the string that a child has 
tied to his leg. Do you not understand 
these yielding natures like his ? He is the 
glove; I, the nervous hand beneath.” 

The doctor did not attempt l^o discuss 
this point, but softly murmured : “ Amen.” 

“If we meet with any resistance,” re- 
sumed Mascarot, “it will come from 
Catenae. I may be able to obtain from 
him an apparent co-operation, but it will 
be only apparent.” 

“Catenae!” interrupted the doctor, 
greatly surprised. “ Do you propose, 
then, to bring him into this ! ” 

“ Most certainly I do.” 

“ But why have you changed your 
mind? ” 

“ Simply because I recognized the fact 
that if we renounce his services now, it 
would be to leave in his hands — the hands 
of a man of business — the secret of our 
society. Because, in short ” 

He interrupted himself, listened a mo- 
ment, and said : 

“Hark ! He is coming now ! ” 

In the corridor, in fact, was heard a 
husky cough. The door opened, and Cat- 
enae appeared. Either by nature, or by 
education, Master Catenae had that air and 
manner which always elicited from new 
acquaintances the remark : 

“ That is a good and honest man ! ” 

On the new faith of his sign, that is to 
say, of his kind face, with its chestnut 
whiskers, any one would have been willing 
to entrust to him both fortune and faith. 
Tartufie, with the shifty eye, compressed 
lips, and lowbrow, would awaken distrust, 
and thus would never be Tartuffe. 

Catenae’s glance, however frank and 
open, met the eyes of the person with 
whom he was conversing squarely and 
honestly. His voice was full and round. 
He had a jovial, devil-may-care manner, 
which always makes its mark. He was 
highly respected as a lawyer in Paris, and 
yet in court Catenae’s arguments were 
poor and infrequent, therefore, if he 
makes thirty thousand francs a year, it is 
because he has a^ specialty. He arranges 
affairs which people dare not bring into 
court, lest they should consign to the gal- 
leys both parties, or leave them with an 
equal smirch on their names. The most 
violent of adversaries threatens a suit, and 
it is even commenced. The public sniffs a 
delightful scandal afar off, and waits im- 
patiently. nothing comes of it. 

The opponents have both consulted Cate- 
nae ; all is quietly settled. 

How many rascals and knaves, ready to 
denounce each other mutually, have thus 
been made amenable to reason ! 

He has also seconded murderers and as- 
sassins quarreling over the division of 
their spoils, but these are not the worst 
things he does. 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


83 


, He has said of hiinself more than once : 

“ I have passed my life amid mud and 
mire.” 

In his private office, in the Eue Jacob 
he has listened to whispered avowals which 
should have brought down the ceiling. 
Naturally, this kind of business was most 
lucrative to Catenae. 

The client who has no concealment from 
his lawyer ; who shows to him his scarred 
and ulcerated conscience, belongs to him 
as the sick man belongs to the physician 
who has administered to him during his 
nameless and shameful maladies ; as too, 
the penitent belongs to his confessor. 
Catenae, however, has that oily, diffuse 
manner and phraseology indispensable to 
those persons who, chosen as arbiters, 
have first to calm the violence of the ad- 
versaries who meet before them. 

“ Here I am ! ” he exclaimed, as he ap- 
peared. ‘‘ You summoned me, friend Bap- 
tistin, and I come ! ” 

“Take a chair,” interrupted Mascarot, 
gravely. 

“ Thanks, dear friend ; many thanks — a 
thousand thanks ; but I am in great haste ; 
have not a moment to spare ; a thousand 
matters on hand: matters of life and 
death.” 

“ Well,” said the doctor, “ you can sit 
down all the same. Baptistin has things 
to say to you which are of quite as much 
importance as any engagement.” 

Catenae obeyed with a genial smile, but 
at heart he was intensely angry, and not a 
little uneasy. 

“ What is it, then? ” he asked. 

Mascarot had bolted the door, and when 
he had taken his seat again, he said : 

“ These are the simple facts : Hortebise 
and^ I have decided to launch the great 
affair which we as yet have only vaguely 
discussed with you. We have an impor- 
tant man — the Marquis de Croisenois ” 

“ My dear sir ” interrupted the law- 

yer. 

“ Wait a moment. Your co-operation is 
essential, and ” 

Catenae started up. 

“ Enough ! ” he exclaimed. “ If it was 
for this that you wrote to me and asked 
me to call here at this hour, you made a 
very great mistake, as I have told you over 
and over again, and I now repeat the same 
assurance.” 

He turned away and took up his hat, 
preparing to beat a retreat, but between the 
door and himself stood the good Dr. Horte- 
bise, who was looking at him with a most 
singular expression. 

Catenae was a man who was by no means 
easily frightened ; but the attitude of the 
worthy Hortebise was so expressive, the 
smile on the lips of Mascarot so sinister, 
that he stood still for a moment with his 
heart in his mouth. 

“What do you mean?” he stammered. 
“What do you wish? ” 


“ We wish, first,” said the doctor, speak- . 
ing very slowly, and distinctly, “that you 
should take the trouble to listen when we 
speak.” 

“ I am listening, I should say.” 

“ Then resume your seat, and open your 
mind to receive our friend, Baptista’s, 
propositions.” 

Catenae’s face was unmoved, and it was 
impossible to ascertain what impressions 
he derived from the attitude and words of 
his associates. He had so drilled every 
muscle, and cultivated his self-control to 
such a point, that a slap in his face would 
hardly have brought a drop of blood to his 
cheek. 

A certain abruptness of movement as he 
seated himself, alone denoted the irritation 
he felt at the violence with which he was 
treated. 

“ Let Baptista explain himself, then,” 
he said. 

With the exception of a mechanical 
touch of his hand to his spectacles, to 
ascertain that they were safely on his nose, 
Mascarot had not moved. 

“ Before going into details,” he said, 
coldly, “ I first wish to ask of our respon- 
sible B'iend — and associate — if he is, or 
is not with us.” 

“ Why should there be the shadow of a 
doubt on that point?” interrupted the 
lawyer; “do all my assurances go for 
nothing?” 

“ Excuse me ; this is not a time for sterile 
assurances. What we need now is loyalty 
and hardy co-operation.” 

“ Can ft be that my friends ” 

“ I ought to say to you.” continued 
Mascarot, without heeding the interrup- 
tion, “ that we have every prospect of 
success, and that if we succeed, it will be 
to the tune of about a million for each of 
us.” 

Hortebise was not endowed with the 
patience of his ally, and exclaimed ; 

“You understand now — speak, yes or 
no.” 

Catenae, as his friends suspected, was in 
a cruel state of indecision. He did not 
speak for a full minute. 

“ Well, then — ‘ no ! ’ ” he suddenly ex- 
claimed, with a violence that betrayed his 
agitation. “ After due consideration — 
having reflected and weighed every con- 
tingency — I answer you with a square 
‘No.’ ” 

Mascarot and Hortebise uttered a simul- 
taneous exclamation. Their “ah I” was 
not altogether one of surprise, but, on the 
contrary, expressed the vague feeling one 
has when one finds himself to have been 
correct in his dread and anticipation. 

“ Permit me to explain,” continued 
Catenae. “ what you probably stigmatize 
as my defection ” 

“ Say treason — that would be more cor- 
rect.” 

“ Very well ; I certainly shall not dispute 


84 


THE SLAVES OF TAItlS. 


the word you choose to employ. I propose 
to be perfectly straightforward with you.” 

By all means,” murmured the doctor, 
‘‘ although such is not your usual style.” 

“ And yet it seems to me that I have 
never concealed my opinion from .you. It 
is more than ten years since I spoke to you 
of breaking up our connection. Do you 
recall what I said? Do you remember my 
words ? I said to you : ‘ Only our extreme 
need, our bitter poverty, justified our acts 
— now they are inexcusable ’ ” 

‘‘You had a good deal to say of your 
scruples,” answered Mascarot. 

“ Ah ! you remember them? ” 

“ Yes, I remember, too, that these same 
scruples have never prevented you from 
coming regularly for your share of the 
profits.” 

“ That is to say,” interrupted the doctor, 
“ you repudiated the risks but accepted the 
profits. You wish to play the game, in 
fact, without laying down the stakes.” 

This argument, to which there seemed 
no possible reply, in no way disconcerted 
Catenae. 

‘‘ It is true,” he answered, “ that I have 
always received my thirds. But have I 
not done quite as much as you toward put- 
ting the agency in its present prosperous 
condition? Does it not go on now smooth- 
ly and noiselessly like a perfect machine? 
Have we not succeeded in almost all our 
operations? Every month, without any 
struggle or especial execution, our income 
c mies in, of which, unquestionably, I am 
c titled and have received one-third. If 
y ju wish now to give up that most preca- 
rious livelihood say so now, and I will not 
oppose it.” 

You are very good, really! ” drawled 
the doctor, with an ominous look in his 
eyes. 

“Nor -will I oppose you if you allow 
things to stand as they are. But if j^ou 
undertake new enterprises and start out 
on a tempestuous sea, full of incalculable 
dangers, I say frankly,, stop where you 
are, I will not take one step further with 
you. I see by both your faces that you 
think me a coward and a fool. Heaven 
grant that events do not prove to you most 
pitilessly that I am entirely in the right. 
Think of it ! for twenty years chance has 
favored us. What is needed to change this? 
A mere nothing. Believe me, it is never 
wise to tempt Fortune who, you know, 
sooner or later, invariably revenges herself 
on those who, instead of paying court to 
her in a decorous manner, seize and run 
away with her.” 

“That is really a beautiful simile,” re- 
marked the doctor, sarcastically. 

“All right. I have not another word 
to say, except once more to repeat my 
warning — refiect well. Prodigious as are 
your hopes and expectations, they are as 
nothing in comparison with the risks you 
run.” 


This cold loquacity was more than the 
doctor could well bear. 

“ It is all very well for you,” he ex- 
claimed, to reason in this way. You are 
a rich man.” 

“ I have enough to live on, I admit ; for 
outside of my income from my profession, 
I have two hundred thousand francs, and 
if you can be induced to renounce your 
projects by sharing this sum with me, you 
have but to say the word.” 

Mascarot who had all this time sat in 
silence, leaving the dispute to the other 
two, now judged it time to interfere. 

“ Professor,” he said, “ and you have 
only two hundred thousand francs? ” 

“ About that.” 

“ And you offer us each a third ! Upon 
my word, sir, you are very liberal, and we 
should be most ungrateful if we were 

not profoundly touched ; only ” He 

stopped, settled his spectacles, and then 
went on in rapid, decided tones: “Only 
were you to give each of us fifty thousand 
francs, you would still have more than 
eleven hundred thousand.” 

Catenae burst into such hearty laughter 
that it was a pleasure to hear him. 

“ You are not in earnest,” he said, when 
he was able to speak. 

“ I will prove the truth of my words ; ” 
and Mascarot unlocked a drawer, took out 
a small register, and turned over the 
pages, and then handed it to Catenae. 
“There,” he said, “ you will find the pre- 
cise state of your fortune up to the end of 
December of last year. Since then you 
have added largely to your finances through 

M. T . I have not added these in, but 

you will find them as memoranda at the 
end of that volume. You can examine it 
fully, if you please.” 

Suddenly the hitherto impassive face of 
his auditor changed — an actual expres- 
sion made itself visible. He started up, 
his eyes flashing fire. 

“ Yes,” he exclaimed, “ you are right. 
I have precisely the fortune you mention, 
and for that reason I do not choose to be- 
long any longer to your association. I 
have an income of sixty thousand livres ; 
that is to say, I have sixty thousand excel- 
lent reasons for not compromising myself, 
and I will not do it — I swear I will not do 
it! You are jealous of my success, of 
course you are; but am I to blame for the 
inequality of our fortunes? Was I not 
penniless also when we began together? 
My life has not been like yours, that is all. 
You have spent right and left, while I 
have saved ; you have thought only of the 
present, while I have had an eye to the 
future. Hortebise has done his best to 
get rid of his clients, while I, on the con- 
trary, have held on to mine, and attracted 
more besides ; and now, because I am rich 
and you poor, you insist on my sacrificing 
everything. This won’t do, my friends — 
it won’t do! When 1 reach the goal of 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


85 


my ambition you expect me to turn back 
and crawl over the road again with you, 
do you? Never! Go your ways, and let 
me go mine. I will have nothing more to 
do with you ! ” 

He snatched his hat, but a gesture from 
Hascarot detained him. 

‘‘ Suppose I told you,” said the latter, 
“ that you are indispensable to us? ” 

I should simply say, ‘ so much the 
worse for you. * ” 

But suppose we insist ” 

“Insist? And how, pray? You hold 
me, but I hold you as well. Try to do me 
harm and you fall with me ! ” 

“ Are you quite sure of that?” 

“ So sure that I say again to you that 
from this day forth 1 will have nothing 
more to do with you.” 

“I think you will find yourself mistaken 
in that.” 

“ Indeed — and why, pray?” 

“ Because, for more than a year I have 
fed and clothed, and kept under my roof a 
young girl by the name of Clarice. Do 
you happen to know her ? ” 

It was not unintentionally that B. Mas- 
carot had allowed his friend Catenae to ex- 
haust himself in as useless struggles as 
those of a fish taken in a net. 

He wished to penetrate the intentions of 
this honorable associate, and understand 
his position once for all. If he had taken 
on himself the task of irritating him, if he 
had encouraged Hortebise in all his ironi- 
cal observations, it was that he well knew 
an angry man allows his tongue indiscreet 
freedom. 

He was sufficiently enlightened, and 
Mascarot again resumed the reins. 

At the name of Clarice the lawyer 
started back like a man who, walking care- 
lessly on, sees at his feet the match applied 
to a train of powder which will blow him 
to atoms. His eyes were dilated in horror 
and his arms throwm up. 

“Clarice!” he stammered; “who told 
you — how could you know? ” 

But the sarcastic smile on the lips of his 
companions lashed his pride so cruelly that 
he almost instantly regained his self-con- 
trol. 

“ Upon my word,” he said, “ I am losing 
my mind. Why should I ask these men, 
whom I know so well, how they learned a 
secret : Have they not the most infamous 
methods always at work? ” 

“I understand you perfectly, you see,” 
resumed Mascarot, coldly. 

“In what respect, pray?” 

“I foresaw that the day would come 
when, considering yourself strong enough 
to stand alone, you would attempt to break 
the ties that unite us. To-day you wish to 
throw us over, and would betray us to- 
morrow, if you could do so without dan- 
ger to yourself. But I am ready for you.” 

The good doctor rubbed his hands with 
more than customary vigor. 


“ But one thing I was unprepared for,” 
continued Mascarot, “ and that is, that you, 
Catenae, a man of more than average intel- 
ligence and shrewdness, could be guilty of 
such poor play — and could, a year a^o, 
have undertaken to betray us. It is in- 
credible.” 

“It is incredible,” repeated the doctor, 
like an echo. 

“And yet your — folly shall I call it? 
Perhaps imprudence would be the better 
word — is of the most ordinary description. 
We see it and hear of it every day. You 
never read the Gazette des Tribunaux^ I 
suppose? I saw a story in it yesterday 
that is almost precisely your own. I will 
tell it you : 

“ An ambitious, hypocritical personage 

— a lawyer, too — a man with a frank face 
and jovial air — brought down from the 
country a young and prettv-^^irl as a ser- 
vant in his house. She was an artless. In- 
nocent creatui*e, full of health and spirits 

— pretty, too, in spite of sun-burn and red 
hands — this man, as I began to say, 
amused himself by seducing this girl. 
For some months matters went pretty 
smoothly, but one fine day the girl found 
that it was impossible to conceal her situa- 
tion any longer. Our good man was 
naturally disturbed, for what would the 
neighbors and the concierge say? Well, 
to make a long story short, the child was 
suppressed — yes, suppressed is a good 
word — and the mother was thrown upon 
the streets.” 

“ Baptistin, have mercy ! ” 

“ But it was really a frightfully impru- 
dent thing to do. Such things are invaria- 
bly discovered. If Crime has its combi- 
nation and its craftiness. Justice has its 
skill and its chances, which are oftentimes 
almost incredible. You have a gardener 
in your house at Champigny. Suppose 
the notion took this man to turn up the 
earth round the well which is at the foot 
of the garden? Do you know what he 
would find? ” 

“ Enough ! ” muttered Catenae, “ I sur- 
render.” 

B. Mascarot adjusted his spectacles, as 
he always did in decisive moments. 

“You surrender, do you? No — not 
yet. At this very moment you are seek- 
ing to parry the blows that I now give 
you.” 

“I assure you ” 

“ Spare yourself this trouble. Your 
gardener will find nothing ! ” 

The lawyer uttered an exclamation of 
condensed rage. He began to understand 
into what a horrible snare he had fallen. 

“ He would find nothing,” repeated Mas- 
carot, slowly. “And yet, it is neverthe- 
less true,” he said, “ that in January of 
last year you, in the middle of one cold 
night, dug a hole there, and in this hole 
you deposited the body of a child, rolled 
in a shawl. And what shawl? Oh! the 


86 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


very one which you, Catenae, bought at 
the Bon Marche, for the mother — the 
clerk who sold it has recognized it, and 
will testify to that effect whenever he is 
needed. Now you can go and look for 
that shawl. Catenae ; but you will not find 
it 

‘‘ And you carried it away ? ” 

“ By no means,” replied Mascarot, in a 
tone of condensed sarcasm; it was Tan- 
taine. I am not quite so imprudent ; but I 
do know where the body is — and you 
will not know. Do not be troubled, how- 
ever, it is perfectly safe; but one single 
act of treachery on your part and the 
very next day you will see in the morning 
papers, under the heading, Paris ! ‘ Yester- 
day, in excavating such and such a place, 
the body of a new-born child was found. 
Steps are being rapidly taken toward the 
discovery of the crime.” . You will see 
this, and you know me well enough to be 
sure that justice will take its course, and 
you also understand that to the shawl of 
that poor girl, Clarice, I have added certain 
tilings — a handkerchief for example — 
that will make the task of bringing the 
guilt home to you by no means a difficult 
one. 

To Catenae’s intense rage had succeeded 
absolute mental prostration. This man, 
whom hitherto nothing had surprised or 
astonished, seemed to be stunned, and to 
have lost the power of refiection or delib- 
eration. His utter despair showed itself 
in incoherent words, and he allowed it to 
be seen, as if he hoped thereby to soften 
the hearts of his implacable associates. 

You are killing me,” he gasped, “ kill- 
ing me at the very moment when I was 
about to grasp the prize for which I have 
toiled for twenty years I ” 

‘•Work is good I” observed the doctor, 
sententiously. 

But there was no time to lose. Paul and 
the Marquis de Croisenois would appear in 
a few moments, Jind Mascarot deemed it 
advisable to restore his demoralized ally to 
his moral equilibrium. 

‘‘You shout as if we wished to hang you 
now and here ! Do you suppose for a mo- 
ment that we are so utterly simple that 
we would expose ourselves to these very 
great perils without an almost absolute 
certainty of success?” Hortebise was as 
disturbed as yourself when I spoke of this 
great stroke of business to him. I ex- 
plained it all fully, and then he was thor- 
oughly satisfied.” 

“Thoroughly satisfied,” echoed Horte- 
bise. 

“ Of course, then, you have nothing to 
fear, and I am quite sure will not, as a man 
of the world, have any resentment toward 
us, who have simply played the game bet- 
ter than yourself.” 

“Go on,” said Catenae, with a forced 
smile, “you have all my attention.” 

Mascarot thought for a moment. 


“ What we desire from you,” he said, 
“ can in no way compromise you. I wish 
you to draw up a paper, the details of 
which I will give you later. Thus you ^vill 
have really no visible connection with the 
affair.” 

“ Very well.” 

“ But this is not all. You have been en- 
trusted with a most difficult mission by the 
Due de Champdoce. You are engaged in 
a search 

“ What ! you know that too? ” 

“ I am ignorant of nothing which can in 
any way serve our ends. I have learned, 
for example, that instead of coming at 
once to me you applied to the only man in 
all the w’orld whom we have any reason to 
fear. Pupignan is almost as clever as we 

“Go on,” said Catenae, impatiently; 
“ what do you expect of me on this point ? ”^ 

“ Very little. You will simply come to 
me first with any discovery you may make, 
and will never say one word to the due on 
which we have not previously agreed.” 

“So be it.” 

The quarrel seemed to have come to an 
amicable teruiination, and the worthy Hor- 
tebise was overjoyed. 

“ Now,” he said, insinuatingly, ‘‘confess 
that it was not worth while making such a 
row.” 

“ I admit,” said Catenae, meekly, “that 
I was in the wrong.” 

He extended his hand to his two amiable 
friends with a wan smile, and said, faintly : 

“ Let it all be forgotten.” 

Was he sincere? The brief exchange of 
glances between Mascarot and the doctor 
was full of suspicion. A moment later 
came a knock at the door, which the doc- 
tor opened, and Paul appeared, bowing 
with respectful affection to his two pro- 
tectors. 

“ First, my boy,” said Mascarot, “ let 
me present you to one. of my oldest and 
best friends.” 

And turning to Catenae he added : 

“I wish to ask your kindness for my 
young friend. Paul is a good fellow, who 
has neither father nor mother, and whom 
we are trying to push on in the world.” 

At these words, emphasized by a strange 
smile, the law3^er started. 

“ Good Heavens ! ” he exclaimed, “ why 
did you not speak sooner ! ” 

As the confidant of the Due de Champ- 
doce, Catenae now saw Mascarot^s project. 


CHAPTER XVH. 

The Marquis de Croisenois kept every- 
body waiting — it was a part of his sys- 
tem, and almost amounted to a mania. 
Perhaps, in this way. hp thought he could' 
assert his own importance, but in this he 
was very much mistaken. A man of keen 
perceptions troubles himself not so much 
as to his arrival being late or early, pro- 


7HE SLAVES OF FABIS, 


87 


vided he appears at the moment at which 
he is most ardently desired. 

To arrive, then, and then only, is the 
secret of many a man’s good fortune. 

Monsieur de Croisenois had been sum- 
moned hy B. Mascarot for eleven o’clock ; 
it was after twelve when he presented him- 
self, with immaculate kids, a glass in his 
eye, and a slender cane in his hands, per- 
meated with that debonnaire and familiar 
impertinence which imbeciles affect when 
they think themselves performing a con- 
descending act. 

At thirty-five, Henri de Croisenois put 
on ail the airs of a handsome, spoiled boy 
of twenty. This careless levity is his 
armor, the always ready excuse for the 
most reckless follies. 

It was still said of him, after some one 
of his escapades, ‘‘he is a scatterbrain — 
an absolute school boy — but he is a good 
fellow, with no harm in him.” 

And he laughed at this in his sleeve. 
Under his indifferent air, he concealed ex- 
cessive acuteness, and has duped and 
cheated even* the usurers with whom he 
has had business. 

If he is ruined, it is simply because he 
has chosen to live like those of his friends 
who are ten times as wealthy as he — no 
new story is that. 

One of the brilliant groups of dissipated, 
extravagant men of the world, of which 
the Due de Sairmeuse was the head and 
front, Croisenois determined that he too 
must keep his race horses — which ot the 
many ways of getting rid of a fortune, is 
certainly the most certain and speedy. 

The frivolous marquis soon made this 
discovery, and was apparently hopelessly 
ruined, when B. Mascarot extended a help- 
ing hand, to which he clung with the des- 
peration of a drowning man who would 
snatch even at a bar of red hot iron. 

But whatever this gentleman’s anxieties 
may have been on the day of which we 
write, his aplomb did not desert him as he 
entered the room and said to Mascarot : 

“ I have kept you waiting, but upon my 
word I could not help it; my time is 
really not my own, you know. But here 
I am at last, and entirely at your disposal ; 
quite ready to wait until you have finished 
with these gentlemen. 

Upon which, having held his lighted 
cigar in his fingers as he spoke, he began 
smoking again. 

His manner was excessively impertinent, 
yet the estimable Baptiston was by no 
means offended, although he hated the 
smell of tobacco. 

The strong are magnanimous at times, 
particularly when they know the simple- 
ton who is braving them they can crush 
under their heel at will. 

Mascarot, too, had need, just now, of 
Henri Croisenois. He was indispensable 
as a spy. 

“We were beginning to despair of see- 


ing you,” he answered. “ I say we, be- 
cause these gentlemen are here on your 
account.” 

The marquis drew down the corners of 
his mouth with a disgusted expression. 

“These gentlemen,” continued Masca- 
rot, “ are my friends, Dr. Hortebise, Mon- 
sieur Catenae, of the Parisian bar, and our 
secretary ” — here he designated Paul. 

This presentation was deliciously sol- 
emn. If Monsieur Croisenois was annoyed 
at finding four confidants where he had 
expected to find one. Catenae was furious 
to see that the secrets of the society were 
to be abandoned to the mercy of a stranger. 

A secret is a very subtile thing; it is 
more volatile than ether, which evaporates 
no matter how hermetically the fiagon 
which holds it may be sealed! 

Hortebise, in spite of his blind confi- 
dence in Mascarot, was surprised. And as 
to Paul, he had neither ears nor eyes. 

Mascarot himself preserved the imper- 
turbable sang-froid of the man, who, hav- 
ing but one end, goes directly toward it 
like a bullet, which turns neither to the 
right nor the left but crashes through every 
obstacle. 

As soon as Croisenois was seated, Mas- 
carot began. 

“ I do not intend,” he said, “ to leave 
you a moment in uncertainty. Diplomacy 
would be absurd between persons like our- 
selves.” 

This phrase and plural struck the mar- 
quis as being so extraordinary, that it was 
with uplifted brows that he drawled: 
“You fiatter me — my dear sir ” 

But as he spoke, the marquis was im- 
pressed by the manner in which Mascarot 
arranged his spectacles. 

“ I think he pities ipe,” he said to him- 
self. “ Hortebise always said that the 
spectacles of his associate spoke so that 
those who ran might read — and he was 
right. It is absurd for clever men to at- 
tempt to conceal the real expression of 
their eyes under thick glasses. Spectacles 
in a very short time become part and parcel 
of the vvearer, and soon avow all that the 
eyes they conceal would have disclosed.” 

“ I will confess to you, Monsieur le 
Marquis,” resumed Mas(;arot, without any 
fencing, “ that your marriage is now all 
arranged — that is, my associates and my- 
self approve of it. The only point now is 
to procure the consent of the young lady. 
We can assure you of the active co-opera- 
of the Count and Countess de Mussidan.’^ 

Croisenois shrugged his shoulders. 

“ There will be no difliculty, I do assure 
you,” he half lisped, “in inducing the 
young lady to look kindly upon me. Each 
epoch has its temptations — I know those 
of our day most thoroughly. I will 
promise her the best houses in Paris, a 
loge at the Italiens, boundless credit at 
Van Klopen’s and absolute liberty. Yes, 
I shall succeed. Of course, I must be pre- 


88 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


sented and backed by some one whom she 
likes, and who enjoys a certain considera- 
tion in her home.” 

‘‘ Do you think that the Vicomtesse de 
Bois d’Ardon would be a suitable god- 
mother? ” 

I suppose so; she is a relative of the 
count’s.” 

“ Very well, then, on any day you choose 
Madame de Bois d’Ardon will support your 
pretensions and sing your praises.” 

The marquis looked very triumphant. 

All right! ” he exclaimed; “ that de- 
cides the matter.” 

Paul asked himself if he were quite 
awake. He had been promised a rich wife 
and here was another man who seemed to 
be cared for in the same way. 

‘‘ These people,” he said to himself, 
“beside keeping an ordinary intelligence 
office, where servants of both sexes can 
find places, seem also to have a matrimo- 
nial bureau.” 

Meanwhile the marquis interrogated 
Mascarot with his eyes. 

“ Speak out ! ” said that ingenuous being, 
“ we are among friends.” 

“ It only remains now, then,” continued 
the marquis, “to fix — the commissions, 
shall I call it?” 

“ I was about to broach that question.” 

“ Very well, then. Let me tell you that 
I will give you a quarter of the dowry, and 
the day after our marriage I will give a 
due bill for that amount.” 

And now Paul thought he had a glimmer 
of light. 

“ I understand,” he said to himself. “ If 
I marry Flavia, I must share her dowry 
with these honest gentleman. I now un- 
derstand why they take so much interest 
in me.” 

But the offer made by the marquis did 
not seem to satisfy Mascarot. 

“ No ; that will not do.” 

“ Not do ? Well, then, I will add to that 
the amount of my debt to you.” 

B. Mascarot shook his head, to the great 
despair of Croisenois, who resumed : 

“You want a third of the dowry. Well, 
take it then.” 

“No,” said Mascarot, “it is not a third 
— no, nor even the half — the entire dowry 
would not do. You may keep that, and 
also the amount of your debt to us, if we 
can arrange it all as I desire.” 

“ Well; what do you want? For Heav- 
en’s sake, speak ! ” 

Mascarot assured himself that his spec- 
tacles were all right. 

“I will speak,” he answered; “but I 
feel I must give you a brief history of the 
association of which I am the head.” 

Up to this moment Catenae and Horte- 
bise had listened without moving, as grave 
and silent as Roman Senators on their cu- 
rule chairs. They thought themselves as- 
sisting at one of those comedies to which 
B. Mascarot had accustomed them — com- 


edies in which the catastrophes varied, 
although they were always fatal. They 
took much the same pleasure in watching 
that discussion as they would have taken 
in seeing a cat play with a miserable mouse 
before devouring it. 

But, when B. Mascarot announced that 
he was about to disclose this most danger- 
ous secret, both these men started to their 
feet in dismay and anger. 

“ Are you mad? ” they both exclaimed, 
as with the one voice. 

Mascarot sli* ■ .gged his shoulders. 

“ Not yet,” he answered, calmly; “ and 
I beg of you to allow me to continue.” 

“But you have no right — at least,” 
stammered Catenae, “we have a voice in 
the decision.” 

“ Enough ! ” exclaimed Mascarot, angri- 
ly ; “I am the head of our society, am I 
not?” 

And in a tone of bitter irony, he contin- 
ued: 

“ Do you think we cannot speak openly 
before the marquis?” 

The physician and lawyer sank back in 
their chairs in a resigned sort of way, and 
Croisenois thought that he would reassure 
them. 

“ Between honest men ” he began. 

“ But we are not honest men,” interrupt- 
ed Mascarot. Then in response to the ut- 
terly confounded face of the marquis, he 
added, in a crushing tone : “Nor are you 
either! ” 

This brutal speech brought the blood to 
the brow of the marquis. The rules of 
good society do not allow people to say, 
face to face, precisely what they think of 
each other. 

He had more than half a mind to show 
his anger, but policy prevailed ; he could 
not lose the alluring prospect before him. 
He bowed his head beneath the insult, and 
pretended to regard it as a joke. 

“ Your paradox,” he said, “ is some- 
what rough.” 

But the honorable Mascarot took no 
notice of this obsequiousness, which 
brought a smile to the doctor's lips. 

“ Listen to me,” continued Mascarot ; “I 
have no time for commonplaces to-day ; 
and you too,” he continued, turning to- 
ward Paul, “ will please follow my words 
with attention.” 

* Thereupon ensued a moment of almost 
solemn silence, and the buzz of voices in 
the outer room was heard through the 
closed door. 

If Hortebise and Catenae were con- 
founded, Croisenois was so stupefied that 
he allowed his cigar to go out, and Paul 
shuddered in advance. 

Mascarot seemed utterly transfigured. 
He had not the slightest vestige left of the 
benigu manager of the intelligence office : 
the sense of power seemed to have added 
to his height, and his spectacles darted 
fiery glances. 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


■89 


“ Monsieur le Marquis,” he began, ‘‘ we, 
my respectable associates and myself, have 
not always been as you see us to-day. 
Twenty-five years ago we were young, we 
were honest — all the illusions of our 
youth were in full force; we had that 
faith which sustains through all trials, we 
had that coura' e which inspires the sol- 
dier as he marches toward the battery he 
is ordered to attack. We lived, all three 
of us, in a miserable garret in the Rue de 
la Harpe, and we loved each other like 
brothers.” 

How long ago that was ! ” muttered 
Hortebise. 

Yes, it is long ago,” continued Mas- 
carot ; ‘‘ and yet the lapse of years does 
not prevent me from seeing things as they 
were, and my heart aches as 1 compare 
the hopes of those days with the realities 
of to-day! We were poor then, marquis, 
very poor ; and yet the world encouraged 
us with vague promises and approval. The 
managers of all those establishments con- 
secrated to the development of nascent 
talent, had murmm’ed in the ear of each 
those magic words: ‘You will succeed — 
tu Marcellus eris / ’ ” 

Croisenois concealed a smile. This story 
was not exciting. 

“ You understand Latin, I see,” he said, 
condescendingly. 

“ I understood it once, at all events. As 
I was saying, each of us anticipated a 
brilliant destiny. Catenae had received a 
prize for his theme on “ The Transmission 
of Property.” Hortebise had written an 
essay that had met with the approval of 
the illustrious Orfila, and I was by no 
means without my successes. Hortebise, 
unfortunately, quarreled with his family, 
and Catenae’s people were poor ; and I — 
well, I had no family — I stood alone. We 
were, therefore, slowly but surely dying 
of hunger. I was the only one of the 
three who earned a penny. I prepared 
pupils for the examination of Saint Cyr 
and the Polytechnic School; but thirty- 
five sous per day — all I got for putting a 
little algebra and geometry into the brain 
of a stupid boy — was hardly enough to 
buy bread for us all. But, to cut a long 
story short,” continued Mascarot, “ the day 
came when we could not raise one single 
sou. I forgot to tell you, too, that I was 
madly in love with a young girl who was 
dying of consumption, and had neither 
food nor fire. What could I do I I knew 
not! But I rushed from the house! I 
was half mad! I asked myself if I had 
best extend my hand for a few sous, or 
spi ing at the throat of the first man I saw 
and demand his purse. I wandered along 
the quays, and talked to the Seine as I 
went. All at once I had a gleam of light. 
I remembered that it was Wednesday, the 
half holiday of the Polytechnic School, 
and I said to myself that if I went to the 
Cafe Semblin or the Palais-Royal, that I 


should unquestionably find there some one 
of my old pupils who would, perhaps, lend 
me a few sous — a hundred sous, perhaps. 
A hundred sous, marquis, is not much, but 
on that day it represented the life of my 
beloved Maria, my friends, and my own. 
Have you ever been hungry, sir?” 

Croisenois started. No, he had never 
suffered with hunger, of course, but how 
could he tell what the future might have 
in store for him — for him whose resources 
were so nearly exhausted — that to-mor- 
row, even, he might be compelled to resign 
his fictitious prosperity and drop to the 
foot of the ladder. 

“When I reached the Caf6 Semblin,” 
continued B. Mascarot, “ I did not see one 
pupil of the school. The waiter to whom I 
spoke looked at me from head to foot with 
profound contempt — my clothes were in 
rags, I admit — but he finally condescended 
to say that the young gentlemen had been 
there, and were coming back. I said I 
would wait for them. The waiter asked 
if I would take anything, and when 1 said 
‘No,’ shrugged his shoulders contemptu- 
ously, and pointed to a chair in the corner, 
where I patiently took my seat. 

“ My brain seemed on fire, but for the 
moment I was comparatively happy, for I 
had a gleam of hope. Among the names 
enumerated by the waiter were those of 
two of the youths whom I had always 
found courteous and obliging. I waited 
for some twenty miuutes, when suddenly 
a young man entered the cafe whose face, 
were 1 to live a hundred years, 1 should 
never forget. He was deadly pale; his 
features were drawn and rigid, and his 
eyes haggard. Evidently he was suffering 
intense agony, either of mind or body. 1 
saw this instantly, but saw also that his 
sufferings were not caused by poverty. 
When he dropped, as it were, on the sofa, 
every waiter in the establishment ran to 
see what he wanted. In a hoarse voice, 
and so unintelligible that the words were 
understood with difficulty, he asked for a 
bottle of brandy and pen, ink, and paper.” 

It was a true story that Mascarot was 
telling, and truth makes its mark. The 
ever-smiling Hortebise had grown serious. 

“ The sight of this man,” continued 
Mascarot, “ consoled me in some mysteri- 
ous way. We are so constituted that the 
griefs of others are in some degree a 
solace to ourselves. It was very evident 
to me that this man suffered terribly, and 
I said to myself, with much unworthy 
satisfaction : It is not the poor alone who 
have reason to curse their unhappy fates ; 
the rich, too, have their share.’ While the 
waiters hunied to obey the orders for 
brandy and writing mateiials — and they 
were soon placed before the young man, 
who at once poured out a glass of eau de vie 
and swallowed it as if it had been water. 
The effect was sudden and appalling. He 
turned crimson and seemed unconscious 


90 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


for a minute or two. I watched him with 
intense curiosity ; a voice cried out to me 
that some mysterious link connected the 
unknown and me; that he was in some 
way interwoven with my life, and that, 
moreover, his influence over me would he 
for evil, rather than for good. So strongly 
was I impressed with this idea that for a 
moment I was tempted to leave the caf6, 
hut my curiosity was too great. 

The unknown in the meantime had re- 
covered. He seized the pen, and quickly 
traced a few lines on a sheet of letter 
paper. These lines evidently did not sat- 
isfy him, for he suddenly stopped, lighted 
a match, and burned the paper. Then he 
drank another glass of hrandy. A second 
letter proved no more satisfactory than did 
the first, for he tore it into hits, and 
stuffed them into his vest pocket. 

He made a third attempt, and I saw 
him writing and erasing his words and 
weighing each syllable. It was perfectly 
evident that he had lost all remembrance 
of the place in which he was. He gesticu- 
lated, even uttered an occasion il exclama- 
tion, and apparently believed himself to 
be in the privacy of his own apartment. 

Finally, he seemed content with what 
he had written, and copied it carefully. 
This was but the affair of a minute. He 
sealed and directed it, having torn the orig- 
inal document into bits and thrown them 
under the table. 

He then called the waiter. 

‘‘ ' Take these twenty francs,’ he said, 
‘ and carry this letter to its address. You 
will come back to me with the answer, for 
there will be an answer. Here is my card. 
Come to my house. And now make haste ! ’ 

The gargon rushed from the room, and 
the gentleman followed almost at his heels, 
lingering only to pay his bill. 

That was the drama being played be- 
fore me. I immediately pictured to myself 
one of those dark intrigues which only too 
often take place in Paris, and indeed in all 
large cities. This man might be* either a 
dishonored husband, a ruined gamester, or 
a father whose son had just dishonored his 
name. I tried to think of something else, 
but all in vain I 

‘'Tliose bits of white paper scattered 
under the table fascinated me. I burned 
to gather them up. to piece them together, 

to know . But as I said before, at that 

time 1 was honest and honorable, and such 
ail act shocked all my instincts. 1 should 
have conquered this temptation but for one 
of those trifling circumstances which often 
decide one’s entire life. A door was opened, 
and the wind caught one of these bits of 
paper and wafted it to my very feet. I 
was dazzled and conquered. I stooped 
and picked up this narrow slip, and 
spelled these four words : 

‘ Blow out my brains.’ 

I was not mistaken, then. I stood face 
to face with some terrible tragedy. 


“ Having yielded to this first temptation 
I was lost, and no longer struggled. The 
waiters were coming and going; no one 
paid the smallest attention to me, and I 
quietly glided to the chair where the un- 
known had sat, and, unperceived, obtained 
possession of two more scraps. On the 
first. I read; 

‘‘ ‘ Shame and horror.’ 

‘‘ And on the second : 

‘ To-night — one hundred thousand 
francs.’ 

‘‘‘ I had it all now. The secret was mine. 
These three conclusions of phrases were 
clear as day to me. Therefore you ask 
why I troubled myself further. I know 
not ; but it is certain that I succeeded in 
finding every bit of this letter. I fitted 
them all together, and then read this laconic 
note : 

‘ Charles — I must have, to-night, one 
hundred thousand francs, and you are the 
only person to whom I can apply. The 
shame and horror of my position is too 
much for me. Can you send me this sum 
in two hours? According to your reply, 
yes or no, will be my conduct. I am saved 
or I blow out my brains.’ 

“ You are probably astonished, marquis, 
at the accuracy of my memory. ^N'ever- 
theless. you ought to know that there are 
some things one never forgets; and this 
very moment I can see that scrawl, its 
erasures, and its most insignificant com- 
mas. But I must continue. 

At the end of these few lines was the 
signature— a well-known commercial name 
which at that time was struggling in one 
of those terrible seasons of financial em- 
barrassment by which fortunes and lives 
are often imperilled. Masearot was silent 
for a moment, overwhelmed by his vivid 
recollections of the past. No one spoke, 
and Croisenois had laid down his cigar. 

‘"I can assure jmu,” resumed Masearot, 
‘‘ that my discovery disturbed me greatly. 
I forgot all ray own anxieties and thought 
only of his. Was not our anguish pre- 
cisely the same? Was he not perishing 
for a hundred thousand francs — and I for 
a hundred sous? By degrees, amid my 
own misery, a terrible temptation began to 
assume a tangible shape and color. 

Why could I not make something out 
of this stolen secret? The idea was an in- 
spiration. I rose and went to the desk, 
and asked for some wafers and a directory ; 
then going back to the table I fastened all 
my bits of paper to a whole sheet, found 
the address of the merchant, and then 
went out. The unfortunate person lived 
in the Hue de la Chaussee d’Antin. For 
more than half an hour I walked up and 
down before the superb house wherein 
he resided. Was he still living? Had this 
friend, this Charles, answered yes? 

Finally I decided to go in. A domes- 
tic in livery answered my question ab- 


THE SLA VES OF PABIS. 


91 


ruptly by saying that his master did not 
receive any one at that hour. Besides, he 
was at dinner with his family. 

“ The response of the footman exasper- 
ated me. 

‘‘‘Very well,’ I said, if you wish to 
avoid a great misfortune, you will go to 
your master and tell him that a poor devil 
has brought him the original draught of 
the letter he just wrote at the Cafe 
Semblin.’ 

“ Indication had imparted to my voice 
so imperious a tone that the servant never 
thought of questioning my mandate. 

" The effect of the announcement must 
have been terrible, for the footman ap- 
peared in another second and, in a fright- 
ened. hurried manner, said to me : 

“‘Come quick! My master is waiting. 

“ He conducted me to a large room fur- 
nished as a library, and decorated with 
taste and magnificence. In the centre of 
this apartment stood the gentleman I had 
seen at the caf6, deadly pale, and with a 
most menacing aspect. As for myself, 
I could hardly speak, I was in sum 
agitation. 

‘“You picked up the scraps of paper I 
threw down? ’ said my man. 

“I nodded my head, and at the same 
time showed him the fragments wafered 
to the sheet of letter paper. 

“What do you want for that?” he 
asked, peremptorily. “ I will give you a 
thousand francs ' 

“ I swear to you, gentlemen, that up to 
that moment I had no intention of selling 
this secret. I had gone to see this man, to 
say to him simply : 

“‘I bring you this paper; some one 
else might have taken advantage of it. I 
have done you a service; in return, loan 
me fifty or a hundred francs.’ 

“ This, as I tell you, was what I intended 
to say, but seeing the interpretation he 
was disposed to put upon my conduct, I 
became angry, and almost without my 
own volition the words burst from my 
lips: ‘I want two thousand] francs.’ He 
opened a drawer and drew oiit an enor- 
mous package of bills and threw them in 
my face.” 

“‘Wretch!’ he exclaimed, ‘pay your- 
self.’ ” 

It was with extraordinary violence that 
B. Mascarot narrated this scene. His 
voice, usually so calm and measured, 
trembled with excitement and rang like a 
bugle blast through the room. 

It was more than a history of the past 
he was narrating. Was he struggling to 
rehabilitate himself before the tribunal of 
his conscience, or was he seeking to exten- 
uate his conduct and exculpate himself in 
the eyes of his associates? 

Paul and Croisenois trembled as if some 
one had thrust a poniard into their hands 
and bidden them do some foul deed of 
assasination. 


“ What I felt,” continued Mascarot, “ at 
this most unmerited insult, I can probably 
never make you understand. It was as if 
my quivering heart were being torn from 
ni}^ living body. I was not myself, and 
God knows that I was not responsible for 
any crime I might have committed then 
and there. 

“ And I was on the point of committing 
one.” 

“ The man of whom I speak will never 
see death but once again so near him. 
Upon the desk lay one of those Catatan 
knives — used as a paper-knife. I snatched 
it, and was about to strike, but the thought 
of Marie, dying of cold and starvation, 
held my arm. I threw down the knife, 
and rushed out of the house half insane. 
I entered that accursed mansion with a 
head held high — proud of mj^ honest pov- 
erty — I left it dishonored!”*^ 

With the exception of Paul, all the men 
in Mascarot’s office knew much of the 
dark side of life, and yet they were all 
thrilled by this narration. 

“ Let me go on,” continued Mascarot. 
“ Once in the street, the two bank-bills I 
had caught, and which I held clutched in 
my hands, were instruments of torture. 
It seemed to me that they burned the flesh 
on my fingers to a crisp. I ran to a broker, 
who probably took me for a madman or an 
assassin, and changed them. Why he did 
not have me arrested, I have never been 
able to understand. 

“ He gave me, not in gold — for gold, in 
1843, was rare — but two heavy bags, each 
containing a thousand francs in silver. 
Weighed down by this burden, I regained 
our miserable garret in the Kue de la 
Harpe. 

“ Hortebise and Catenae were waiting 
for me with inexpressible anxiety. You 
remember that day, my friends? You 
knew that we were absolutely without a 
sou. You had seen me go out in a state 
of desperation ; and it was I, who, up to 
that time, had kept up your courage. You 
saw that I was crushed to the earth by the 
privations endured by the woman whom I 
loved better than life itself ; and you asked 
each other, in low, affrighted voices, if I, 
in crossing the bridges, would not throw 
myself over, and so end my misery in this 
world. , 

“ My story is especially for you, mar- 
quis. As I entered our room, therefore, 
my friends rushed to meet me, overjoyed 
to see me again, but I repulsed them 
roughly. 

“ ‘Let me be!’ I cried: ‘Let me be! I 
am no longer worthy of your companion- 
ship; but we have money!’ and I threw 
the bags on the floor ; one of them burst 
open and the silver rolled to every corner 
of the room. Marie started from her 
chair with uplifted arms. 

“ ‘ Money ! ’ she cried. ‘ We shall have 
food — - and I shall live I ’ 


92 


THE SLAVES OF PAItlS, 


“My friends, marquis, were very differ- 
ent in those days — not as you see them 
now. They started hack in horror. They 
thought — or rather, they knew — that I 
had committed a crime 

“ ‘ No, not a crime,’ I said, bitterly, ‘ at 
least, none that the mighty arm of the 
law can reach. This money is the price of 
our honor, but no one will ever know it 
but ourselves ! ” 

“ None of us slept that night, marquis; 
but when daylight came and surprised us 
around a table covered with bottles, we 
conquered by the difficulties of an iionest 
life, had declared war against the whole 
world, and swore that we would arrive at 
fortune and success by one means or anoth- 
er, and had formed the plans of our asso- 
ciation.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Mascarot, desirous of leaving Paul and 
Croisenois under the strongest possible im- 
pression, relapsed into silence, and walked 
up and down the room. 

If his intention had been to startle his 
auditors, he had unquestionably succeeded. 
Paul was actually breathless, and Croise- 
nois in vain tried to utter one of those tri- 
fling remarks which were habitual to him. 
He had neither words nor ideas. He un- 
derstood, of course, that between this re- 
cital and his own business there was some 
intimate connection, but what it was he 
was at a loss to divine. 

Catenae and . Hortebise, who thought 
they fully understood their dear Baptiston, 
exchanged surprised and anxious glances. 
Mascarot, in the meantime, appeared to be 
utterly indifferent to the effect he had pro- 
duced, and the next time he reached his 
desk he stopped, and leaning against it ad- 
justed his spectacles with his usual gesture. 
His countenance had regained its equanim- 
ity. 

“ I hope, marquis,” he said, carelessly, 
“ that you will pardon this long but indis- 
pensable preface, which you will admit to 
be sensational enough for a novel. Now 
comes the practical portion of my dis- 
course.” 

Mascarot, knowing how much weight 
the attitude of the speaker imparts to his 
words, did not take a chair, but going to 
the chimney-piece stood with his arm upon 
it. His spectacles, it is true, concealed his 
eyes ; but his whole person seemed charged 
like an electric battery, and communicated 
a magnetic fluid from his energetic will. 
He commanded absolute attention as he 
spoke. 

“ On this night of which I speak,” he 
resumed, “ we, my friends and I, broke 
loose from all obligations of honor and 
morality, and shook ourselves free from 
all shackles of duty. The plan leaped 
from my brain entire and complete in its 
smallest details, and I have no better word 


to describe it to you to-day than those I 
used twenty-years ago to my friends. 

“You know, marquis, how, as summer 
advances, there is scarcely a cherry with- 
out its worm. The finest ones, the largest 
and reddest, the freshest in appearance, 
are precisely those which when opened 
show the worm within. Just so, in the 
highest circles of a city like Paris, there is 
not one family — I say not one, and use 
the phrase advisedly — that has not its 
guilty secret, its shameful mystery and 
gaping wound. 

“ Now, suppose that any one man should 
gain possession of all of these? Would he 
not be master of the world? Would he 
not be more powerful than the most pow- 
erful of monarchs? Would he not be able 
to manage everything according to his own 
caprices and interests ? 

“Very well, I said to myself that I 
would be that man.” 

Ever since the Marquis M. de Croisenois 
had had business relations with Mascarot 
htt^had not been without shrewd suspicions 
oMhe nature of his operations. 

“ You are describing an elaborate system 
of blackmailing ! ” he exclaimed. 

B. Mascarot bowed low with an ironical 
smile. 

“Precisely, marquis. It is precisely, 
what is called blackmailing. The word is 
new, but the thing itself is doubtless as 
old as the world itself. The first day that 
a man, discovering some infamous act 
committed by a fellow creature threatens 
him with exposure unless he submits to 
certain demands, was the day that black- 
mailing was invented. If all that is old is 
to be respected, then blackmailing must 
not be repudiated.” 

“But, monsieur!” cried the marquis, 
with a flushed face. 

“Pshaw!” answered Mascarot, with a 
contemptuous shrug of his shoulders, “are 
you afraid of a word ? Who has not done 
more or less of this same blackmailing? 
Look at yourself ; do you remember that 
night this very winter, when at your club 
you caught a young stranger cheating at 
cards? You said nothing to him or any 
one else at the time : you found out that 
he was very rich ; you called on him the 
next day and borrowed ten thousand 
francs. When do you intend to return 
them? ” 

Croisenois fell back helplessly in his 
chair. 

“ Horrible ! ” he murmured. 

But Mascarot did not look at him. 

“ I know,” he continued, “ at least two 
thousand persons in Paris to-day who 
have no other means of support than black- 
mail. I have studied them all — from the 
low-born convict who extorts money from 
his former companion in the galleys, up to 
the wretch in the dogcart who, because 
chance has made him the confidant of the 
weakness of some unfortunate woman, 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


93 


forces this women to give her daughter as 
his wife ! ” 

“ If you should happen some day to see 
the Prince de Saccost and the banker on 
the boulevard, you will notice that the 
hnughty prince presses the hand of this 
wretch most affectionately, and yet he is 
a man whose reputation is so tarnished, 
that upon my word I should be most un- 
willing to speak to him myself. Now 
why is this; I have not yet been able to 
find out, but I am convinced that it is a 
secret that would be worth at least a hun- 
dred thousand francs. 

know a commissionaire in the Rue 
de Douai, who in five years amassed a 
comfortable little fortune. Guess how. 
When he was trusted with a letter he in- 
variably opened and read it. If it con- 
tained one compromising line he pounced 
down upon the writer. 

“ There is scarcely a business enterprise 
which has not its parasites, skilful persons 
who have discovered something which will 
not bear the light, and who consequently 
are paid to keep silence. 

‘‘I know one honorable society, who, 
having once broken their statutes, are 
compelled to pay a yearly pension to a 
scoundrel docked with foreign orders, be- 
cause he holds the proofs of their dishonor. 

“All these matters, it is necessary to 
say, are negotiated with the utmost care 
and secresy. In regard to blackmailing, 
the police are alert, and the French courts 
extremely severe.” 

B. Mascarot apparently desired to thrill 
his hearers with every note in the gamut. 

At the words “courts” and “police,” a 
cold shiver ran over them from head to 
foot. 

“ Upon this ground,” he continued, “ the 
English are really our superiors. In Lon- 
don a shameful secret is as negotiable as a 
bill of exchange. In the city there is a 
well-known jeweler who advances funds 
at once on the strength of a ‘ dangerous 
letter ’ signed by a respectable name. His 
shop is a sort of mont de piete of infamy. 

The principal blackmailers of London 
have, in different ways, and at different 
times, extracted from Lord Palmerston 
fifty thousand pounds sterling. Old Pam 
was guilty of the fault of loving his neigh- 
bor’s wife, and was horribly afraid of 
scandal. 

“In America it is better still; black- 
mailing is there elevated to the height of a 
profession. The New York citizen who 
meditates some knavery stands more in 
terror of the traffickers in secrets than of 
the police.” 

Hortebise and Catenae by this time 
showed evident signs of impatience, but 
Mascarot paid no heed to either their looks 
or signs. 

“Our beginnings were by no means, 
marquis, examples of finished skill. For 
a long time, too, we were sowing our crops 


and you come in just as we are about to 
reap our harvest. Fortunately, the pro- 
fessions of Catenae and Hortebise seemed 
to have been chosen to further our opera- 
tions ; one was a lawyer, the other a phy- 
sician. They cured wounds, one of the 
body, the other of the purse. You can 
easily understand that in these respective 
professions they naturally became pos- 
sessors of many secrets. As for myself, 
the head of our association, it was, of 
course, impossible for me to remain a 
mere looker-on with folded arms. But 
what was there for me to do? For several 
weeks I discussed this question with my- 
self. Our funds had by this time suffered 
severe inroads, and at last 1 concluded to 
hire this office, and I established myself 
here as the head of an intelligence bureau. 
Such a modest occupation would of course 
attract little or no curiosity, and in all 
other respects my provisions were correct, 
as the result has proved, and as my friends 
will affirm.” 

Hortebise and Catenae nodded an assent. 

“ By my system,”: continued Mascarot, 
“ the rich man, in the privacy of his home 
among his family and surrounded by his 
servants, is more strictly watched than the 
condemned criminal in his cell, surrounded 
by invisible spies. Nothing that this rich 
man does escapes the observation of those 
servants whom we have placed about him. 
Let him speak or be silent, irritated or 
gay, each word and act is weighed and 
analyzed. To conceal one of his acts, 
much less one of his thoughts from us for 
eight consecutive days is quite impossible. 
The very secret that in the night he con- 
fided to his wife with closed doors and 
with lips close to her ears is discovered.” 

Here the marquis smiled superciliously. 

V You, sir,” said Mascarot, ‘‘ must have 
meditated on these thoughts, for I notice 
that never once have you taken a servant 
from this bureau. But, do you think for 
a moment that in this way I am kept in 
ignorance of your acts? By no means. 
And too, you have a valet at this moment 
of whom Vou literally know nothing.” 

“ Oh! Morel was recommended to me 
by an intimate friend. Sir Richard Wake- 
field!” 

“ Indeed ! But this fact does not prevent 
me from doubting the youth. However, 
more of this on an another occasion. 
Now to return to the subject in hand. As 
I was telling you, I conceived the idea of 
utilizing the immense power possessed by 
these servants who go from household to 
household. I determined to condense it, 
as it were, like vapor, and then to employ 
it as we choose! And it is precisely this 
I have done. This insignificant bureau is 
really the centre of a stupendous spider’s 
web, which has cost me twenty years of 
patient labor, but in whose ramifications 
all of Paris is now involved. 

“I stay here before my fire, but eyes 


94 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


and ears are at work for me in every direc- 
tion. The police spend millions in fees to 
their agents, while I, without loosening 
my purse strings, have an army of faith- 
ful laborers. 

‘‘ I receive at least fifty servants every 
day of both sexes. Count for yourselves 
how many this will be at the end of tl:|e 
year. And while the agents of the police 
are compelled to hover around the houses 
which they wish to watch, mine are within. 
They live there amid the interests and pas- 
sions and intrigues of their employers. 
And this is not all. Through tiie em- 
ployees for whom I find situations, I have 
a foothold in commerce. Through my 
waiters in the restaurants, I have the en- 
tree to the most secluded of their rooms.’' 

It was in a tone of intense satisfaction 
that B. Mascarot explained the working of 
his machinery. His very spectacles glit- 
tered with joy. 

But do not imagine for a moment,” he 
added, ‘‘that all these people are in my se- 
cret — by no means ! The greater part of 
them are totally unaware of what they are 
doing, and in this is my great strength. 
Each of them brings me a thread, and it is 
I who twists the mighty cord which binds 
my slaves. They come here and talk. 
They are malicious and indiscreet, that is 
all; and we save, listen, and piece and 
patch together all the information we have 
gathered, and every evening 1 have more 
than one entry to make in my note-books. 
These people who serve me in this unsus- 
pecting manner, remind me of those strange 
Brazilian birds whose presence is an infal- 
lible announcement of a subterranean 
spring. Wherever one of them utters a 
note there let the thirsty traveler dig, and 
he will surely find the water he seeks. To 
dig is therefore my especial business — I 
seek, and I find. N’ow, marquis, do you 
understand the motives and objects of our 
association?” 

“ Which,” said Dr. Hortebise, gently, 
“ has brought us in some years more than 
two hundred and fifty thousand francs.” 

Monsieur de Croisenois detested long 
stories, but he was by no means insensible 
to the eloquence of figures. He knew the 
life of Paris too thoroughly not to fully 
understand that in throwing his net thus 
regularly into troubled waters, that Mas- 
carot must catch many fish — that is to 
say, much money. After this conviction 
had taken full possession of his mind it 
did not require much urging to induce him 
to look favorably on th6 project. With a 
most winning expression he now asked: 

“ And what must I do to earn the pro- 
tection of the society?’' 

B. Mascarot was too acute not to at once 
perceive the drift of this question . If his 
lengthy explanation had obtained only this 
result, he would have felt that he had done 
well; but there was more than this. 

Paul, chilled with dismay at first, had 


gradually recovered his equanimity as he 
realized the power of these men who had 
charged themselves with his future. He 
lost sight of the infamy of the speculation 
in his admiration of the ingenious combi- 
nations. 

“If,” resumed Mascarot, “ we have had, 
up to this time, no disagreeable occur- 
rences, it is that while we seem to be rash 
and fool-hardy, we are in reality exces- 
sively cautious and prudent. We have 
managed our people well — we have driven 
no one of them to extremity. Lucrative as 
is our profession, marquis, we are begin- 
ning to tire of it. We are growing old, 
my friend, and I — and we need repose. 
We have therefore made up our minds to 
retire ; but we wish first, if possible, to ar- 
range all our afiairs. I have an enormous 
mass of documents of all kinds,” continued 
Mascarot; “but they are, generally speak- 
ing, of a most delicate nature ; and to ob- 
tain the value they represent is not always 
easy. I count on your assistance.” 

At that declaration Croisenois turned 
pale. 

What! Was he expected to go armed 
with compromising letters — to say to men 
whom possibly he knew : “ Your purse, or 
your honor ! ” He had no objection to 
sharing the profits of an ignoble trafiic, 
but he had no intention, to use a vulgar 
phrase, of putting his hand in the pie. 

“IN’ever!” he exclaimed, hastily; “no 
— never. You must not count on me.” 

His indignation seemed so entirely sin- 
cere, and his determination so firm and 
decided, that Hortebise and Catenae ex- 
changed a glance of dismay. 

But Mascarot shrugged his shoulders 
and adjusted his spectacles. 

‘ 'Ho nonsense, if you please, sir,” he said, 
sternly. “ Wait before you show quite 
so much decision. I told you that my 
documents were of a special nature, and 
this is why. One of the greatest difficul- 
ties with which we have to contend is, that 
we often stumble across married people 
who, although they are very rich, have 
not the disposal of their own fortunes. 
Husbands say, to take ten thousand francs 
from m 3 ^ fortune without the knowledge 
of my wife is utterly impossible. Women 
say, I can have no money except through 
my husband. And both are sincere. How 
many of them I have seen grovelling at 
my feet when they knew me to be the 
possessor of some blasting secret. They 
say to me; ‘ Have mercy — I will do all 
you wish. You shall have more than you 
ask if you will only find some excuse.’ 
This excuse I have sought and found in an 
industrial society which yOu will start in 
another month.” 

“Upon my honor!” remonstrated the 
marquis, “ I really do not see ” 

“ I beg jmur pardon, you see perfectly 
well. A husband who cannot give five 
thousand francs to us without destroying 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


95 


all his domestic comfort, will give us ten 
thousand because he can say to his wife, 
gaily : " It is an investment.’ And many a 
wife who has not a penny herself will in- 
duce her husband to bring us the sum we 
demand. And now, what do you think of 
this idea? ” 

“I think it excellent; but in what re- 
spect am I indispensable?” 

“ In the sense that the head of this com- 
pany must be a man.” 

‘‘ But where are you? ” 

“Are you jesting, marquis? Do you 
imagine that I, the head of a new intelli- 
gence office, can have weight enough to 
start such a society as I suggest ? I should 
be laughed to scorn. Hortebise, a physi- 
cian, and, worse still, a homoeopath, would 
fare no better. Catenae, of course, is 
barred by his position and profession from 
all such speculations ; he will be our legal 
adviser. Now, to begin with the smallest 
possible chance of success the society 
must at least appear to be serious.” 

The marquis was embarrassed. 

“ But I really see in myself no one of 
the qualities which go to make up a great 
financier or speculator.” 

“You are really very modest. In the 
first place you have your title and your 
name ; these, I am quite ready to admit, 
signify very little in our eyes, but they 
have a great effect upon the masses. Are 
there not companies who pay, and pay 
well, for the names and titles which they 
engrave at the head of their prospec- 
tus?” 

“ But my position is singularly unfor- 
tunate.” 

“ It is, on the contrary, singularly excel- 
lent. Before beginning this enterprise 
you can pay all your debts, and when that 
IS done the world will at once conclude 
that you are possessed of an enormous 
capital. Then, at the same time almost, 
the news of your marriage to Mademoi- 
selle de Mussidan will be spread about in 
your circle. What more would you de- 
sire?” 

“ My reputation is utterly detestable; I 
am called frivolous and extravagant ! ” 

“So much the better. The day you 
issue the prospectus of your society there 
will be a general laugh. Men will say to 
each other: ‘What do you think Croise- 
nois is at now? What on earth put it into 
his head to go into business?' But as this 
step on your part will have liberated you 
first from debt, and give you next the mil- 
lion of Mademoiselle’s Sabine’s dowry, 
you can afford to let them laugh.” 

What a prospect for a man to whom ex- 
istence was a problem that he was called 
upon each morning to solve ! 

“ Suppose I should agree to accept this 
proposal,” he asked, “how would the 
comedy end?” 

“In the most simple way in the world. 
When all the stock is sold you will quietly 


lock the door and let things take care of 
themselves.” 

Croisenois started up in a rage. 

“That is to say,’^ he exclaimed, “you 
mean to sacrifice me entirely. You wish 
to send me to the galleys ! ” 

“ How ungrateful he is,” answered Mas- 
carot, blandly, “ when I am doing my very 
best to keep him from going there.” 

“ Sir ! ” 

But Monsieur Catenae now appeared on 
the scene. Not being able to get clear of 
the net himself, it was now to his interest 
to aid Mascarot as much as possible. 

“You do not understand, my dear sir,” 
he said to Croisenois. “ Have we not 
companies with limited responsibilities? 
Now, listen to me. To-morrow call upon 
a notary. Tell him that you wish to make 
an appeal to intelligent capitalists for the 
development of some enterprise or another 
— say marble in the Pyrenees, if you wish. 
Then open your subscription list, which 
will be immediately filled by Baptiston’s 
clients. When these funds are in our 
hands, what then? We will take care that 
we reimburse all strangers who buy our 
stock, and we will write to them that the 
thing has been a failure — that we are 
ruined in short — that the capital is lost. 
Now, Baptiston will take care to obtain 
from each one of his people a discharge in 
full, so that the thing will blow over 
quietly.” 

The marquis listened, and thought for a 
moment. 

“But, gentlemen,” he exclaimed, “all 
the subscribers must necessarily know 
that I have behaved dishonorably.” 

“Of course ” 

“ They would despise me.” 

“Necessarily — but they would never 
dare to let you see it. And appearances 
are enough, are they not? Who would 
have thought you so difficult — and, be- 
tween ourselves, who in these days is 
thoroughly worthy of esteem and respect? 
No, no, be content with extreme consider- 
ation. Do not undertake to go deeper.” 

The clever marquis could not speak for 
astonishment. 

“ And are you sure of your clients?” he 
asked, at last. “ Are you certain that 
there are enough of them to make the op- 
eration worthy of the trouble and the risk 
we run?” 

This question was precisely what Mas- 
carot was waiting for. 

“My calculations are all made,” he said, 
“ and they are exact.” 

As he spoke he took from his desk a 
bundle of those slips of paper v/hich he 
spent his life in arranging. 

“ I have the names here of three hun- 
dred and fifty persons who will each turn 
into the concern ten thousand francs.’’ 

' “ Good heavens I” 

“Listen to me patiently, and see if I am 
not correct.” 


96 


THE SLAVES OF PATHS. 


He shuffled the papers through his hands 
as if he were playing a game of cards, and 
then .extracted one carefully, and read 
aloud : 

“N .civil engineer. Five letters 

addressed by him to the wife of the gentle- 
man who secured for him his present lu- 
crative post. Good for fifteen thousand 
francs. 

P . merchant. Positive proof that 

his last failure was fraudulent, and that 
he concealed from his creditors two hun- 
dred thousand francs. He will bleed to 
the extent of twenty thousand francs. 

‘‘ Madame V . Her photograph in 

too insufficient a costume. Poor, but will 
pay three thousand francs. 

"‘Madame H . Three letters of her 

mother’s, leaving no doubt on the minds 
of the readers that the daughter was a 

guilty woman when H married her. 

Letter from a midwife as corroborative 
testimony. She manages her husband, and 
must be made to pay ten thousand francs. 

“ L . A song, which is both impious 

and obscene, written by his own hand and 
signed in full. Two thousand francs. 

“S . Head clerk in the Company 

. Cooked account of his. Can be made 

to pay fifteen thousand francs. 

— . Part of his correspondence 

with L in 1848. Three thousand 

francs. 

“ Madame M. de M . A true account 

of her adventures with Monsieur J .” 

This was quite enough to satisfy Mon- 
sieur de Croisenois. 

“ It is enough,” he interrupted, “ and I 
surrender. Yes, I bow profoundly before 
your most mysterious power, which is 
more formidable than that of the police. 
I await your orders,” he added, with con- 
siderable agitation. 

B. Mascarot conquered him as he had 
conquered the Count de Mussidan. Paul 
Violaine, and Catenae, and now he had the 
marquis at his feet. 

Croisenois, a dozen times during this 
discussion, had been tempted to refuse his 
co-operation, but each time the words died 
upon his lips, for he knew perfectly well 
that he was in the power of that strange 
person with the cynical laugh and con- 
temptuous air, who probably knew more 
of his private life than the one" dishonorable 
transaction which he had named. 

Now, the marquis had on his conscience 
enough pecadilloes to tremble under the 
look which was riveted on him through 
those green.spectacles — a look which was 
as keen as that of a judge before whom a 
criminal is brought up. His vanity suf- 
fered unquestionably from this humiliating 
and dishonoring dependence, and the few 
drops of honest blood left in his veins 
curdled at the thought of his position. 

But, on the other side, he was dazzled by 
this new out-look, and rejoiced to be asso- 
ciated with men whose power was at once 


so mysterious and redoubtable. At first 
he had fancied that he was to be sacrificed, 
but was reassured by the evidence offered 
him that their interests were one. All 
these considerations had induced him to 
utter the consent, which, an hour earlier, 
would have burned his haughty lips. 

“I await your orders! ” he repeated. 

This excessive humility was needless. 
Only the inexperienced allow themselves 
to feel, or rather to show any satisfaction 
in such triumphs. B. Mascarot was not 
inexperienced, and he knew that while a 
conquered man may forget his defeat, he 
never forgives a gratuitous insult. 

It was then with the most perfect court- 
esy that he replied : 

“I have no orders to give, sir. Our in- 
terests are equal and we must deliberate 
together and act in concert, before we can 
decide on the most suitable measures. 

C Croisenois bowed profoundly grateful 
for this unexpected courtesy, succeeding 
so much brutality. 

It only remains for me now,” resumed 
Mascarot, to show you the advantage of 
your resolution. You wrote to me the 
other day that you were at the end of your 
resources, and I know that jmu have noth- 
ing to expect in the future.” 

“Pardon me, I have the property of my 
poor brother George, who disappeared so 
strangely.” 

Mascarot shrugged his shoulders. 

“Let me assure you,” he said,“that frank- 
ness between us is altogether desirable.” 

“ I do not see,” answered the marquis, 
with an air of surprise, “ in what I am 
wanting in frankness.” 

“Why the deuce do you talk to us of 
this mythical fortune? ”, 

“ It is not mythical, sir; it exists, and is 
of considerable amount.” 

""About twelve or fourteen hundred 
thousand francs.” 

Well, then, can I not obtain it? Arti- 
cles 127 and 129 of the Code Napoleon ” 

He stopped, for he caught on the face of 
Dr. Hortebise an expression of ill re- 
strained amusement. 

‘‘ Do not talk such nonsense,” said Mas- 
carot. "" While there was the mere ques- 
tion of filing a declaration of absence, and 
of placing an agent in possession, you had 
a chance of success, but now, as you very 
well know, this is precisely what you do 
not wish to do.” 

“ And why not? Do you suppose ” 

“Tut, tut! You did well; but there is 
so little left of that fortune, that even 
your creditors could not be satisfied out 
of it. I know perfectly well that this fa- 
mous inheritance is the mirror you use to 
dazzle your tradesmen.” 

Croisenois was not easily abashed, and 
he now burst into uproarious laughter. 

Mascarot had by this time placed him- 
self in his easy chair, and seemed utterly 
overwhelmed by fatigue. 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


97 


“ It would be useless, marquis,” he said I 
in aweary voice, “to detain you longer. | 
We will see each other again shortl3^, and 
arrange our plans more in detail. In the 
meantime Catenae will draw up the con- 
stitution of your enterprise, and will drill 
you in that financiering language which 
you will need.” 

Was this a dismissal? Monsieur de 
Croisenois and the lawyer evidently took 
it as such, for they rose at once, and after 
shaking hands with Mascarot and the doc- 
tor, and bowing to Paul, they departed 
together, like two old friends, rather than 
acquaintances of two hours’ standing. 

As soon as the door closed upon them, 
Mascarot revived. 

“ Well, Paul,” he exclaimed, what do 
you think of all that you have heard?” 

With soft and pliable natures impres- 
sions may be both keen and deep, but not 
lasting. 

After having been almost overwhelmed 
by the shock, Paul, although still a little 
pale, had now recovered from the shock, 
and had succeeded in smothering his con- 
science and almost in adopting a cynicism 
quite worthy of his patrons. 

“I think,” he answered, in a steady 
voice, “thatj’^ou need me. So much the 
better. I am not a marquis, but I assure 
you that you will find me as obedient as 
Croisenois.” 

Paul’s words in no way surprised Mas- 
carot ; but did they please him ? A skill- 
ful observer would have detected on his 
face, generally so impassive, indications 
of a contest between two absolutely oppo- 
site sentiments — a lively satisfaction and 
intense annoyance. 

As to Dr. Hortebise, he was simply 
wonder-struck at the cool audacity of this 
neophyte, who was his pupil in some de- 
gree. 

The exact meaning of the scene which 
had tai en place now flashed into his mind 
and he struck his forehead with the aston- 
ishment of a man who has pursued an 
idea of the most excessive simplicity. 

“What an absolute fool I am!” he 
thought to himself. “ It was not to the 
Marquis de Croisenois that Baptiston was 
really addressing himself. It was to Paul. 
What a wonderful actor he is I With what 
astonishing dexterity was each word that 
dropped from his lips calculated to silence 
a remorse or awaken the cupidity in this 
facile, vain nature.” 

In the meanwhile Paul was disturbed by 
the silence of his protector. If at first he 
had been horrified at finding himself in 
the hands of this extraordinary man, he 
now trembled at the idea of being aban- 
doned by him and left to his own re- 
sources. 

••lam waiting, sir,” he said at last. 

“ And for what?” 

‘‘Merely that you shall tell me on what 
conditions I may make a name for myself 


and a fortune, and marry Mademoiselle 
Flavia Eegal^ whom I love.” 

Mascarot smiled, and a villainous smile 
it was, too. 

“ Whose dowry you love, I presume, you 
mean?” he said, slowly. “Let us state 
things clearly.” 

“ Excuse me, sir, I said precisely what I 
meant.” 

The doctor, who had not the same reason 
for being serious that his honorable friend 
had, now laughed heartily. 

“And Rose?” he said; “that pretty 
Rose?” 

“ Rose is a thing of the past,” answered 
the young man. “ I now realize my sim- 
plicity, and, so far as I am concerned, she 
no longer exists.” 

Paul unquestionably spoke the truth, 
even when he added : 

“ And I am half inclined to regret Made- 
moiselle Regal’s fortune, which seems to 
create an obstacle between us.” 

This declaration seemed to dissipate the 
clouds which obscured Mascarot* s brow, 
and his spectacles emitted a softer light. 

“ Reassure yourself,” he said, gayly, 
“ we will conquer that obstacle. Is not 
that so, Hortebise? Onl}^ Paul, my boy, 
I must not attempt to conceal from you 
the fact that the role I propose for you to 
play is infinitely moie difficult than the 
one assigned to Monsieur de Croisenois. 
It is also more dangerous by far, and the 
recompense will be in correspondence with 
the risk.” 

“ Sustained and counselled by you, I 
feel myself quite capable of doing all, and 
of succeeding in all ! ” 

•‘You will need enormous audacity, un- 
paralleled self-possession and excessive 
cleverness. To begin with, you must re- 
nounce your very personality.” 

“ Which I do with all my heart.” 

“ And you must become altogether an- 
other person. You must take his name, 
his past, his habits and ideas, his virtues 
and his vices. You must forget all that 
you yourself have ever done or said, and 
must labor to convince yourself that you 
are really he whom you represent. This 
is the only way in which you can deceive 
others into a similar belief. The task will 
be a severe one.” 

“ Ah ! sir,” cried Paul, with enthusiasm, 
“ do we trouble ourselves much about the 
obstacles in our road when we walk with 
our eyes riveted upon the showy light at 
the end? ” 

The genial doctor clapped his hands en- 
thusiastically. 

“ Well said ! ” he exclaimed. 

“ Then,” continued Mascarot, “ we shall 
no longer hesitate to reveal to you the se- 
cret of your lofty destiny. And now sum- 
mon all your courage — drill your brows, 
eyes and lips so that they will never betray 
your secret thoughts. Do you understand 
me, my dear due ? *’ 


98 


THE 8 LAVES OF PABIS, 


Here the speaker was interrupted. 

Beauinarchef presented himself after 
having discreetly announced his entrance 
by three or four good taps. He was gor- 
geous to behold, as he had had the advan- 
tage of a half hour, when almost no one 
was in the agency, and had arrayed him- 
self in his best clothes. 

‘‘ What is it?” asked Mascarot. 

Two letters, sir.” 

‘‘Thanks. Give them tome, and leave 


us.” 


While the man, accustomed to these 
brusque conges retired, Mascarot exam- 
ined the letters. 

“ Ah ! ” he said; “ News from Van Klo- 
pen and from the Hotel de Mussidan. Let 
us first see what this most illustrious Tail- 
leur des Dames has to say.” 

He tossed aside the envelope, and read 
in a clear voice : 


“Dear Sir — Be satisfied; our friend 
Verminet has executed your orders with 
extreme cleverness. At his instigation 
Gaston de Gandelu has imitated, on five 
separate notes of a thousand francs each. 
Monsieur Martin Regal’s signature — the 
banker whose daughter you sent to me. 

“ I have these five notes at your disposal, 
and I remain, while awaiting new orders 
in respect to Madame de Bois d’Ardon, 

“ Your very humble servant, 

“VanKlopen.” 


Mascarot then opened the other letter, 
and read that, too, aloud : 

“ I have to announce to you, sir, the 
rupture of the marriage between Mademoi- 
selle Sabine and Monsieur de Breulh-Faver- 
lay. Mademoiselle is very ill. I have just 
heard the physician say she would probably 
not live through the day. Florestan.” 

At this intelligence, which threatened to 
frustrate all his plans, B. Mascarot was 
filled with such sudden fmy that he 
brought his hand down with a crash upon 
his desk. 

“Thunder and lighting!” he shouted. 
“ Can it be possible that this little fool will 
play us such a shabby trick as to die now? 
We should have all our work to do over 
again.” 

He pushed back his chair, and walked 
up and down the room hurriedly. 

“Florestan is right,” he exclaimed; 
“ this illness of Mademoiselle de Mussidan 
coincided with the rupture of this mar- 
riage. There is some secret, which we 
must know, for we cannot work in the dark. 

“ Do you wish me,” asked the doctor, 
“ to go to the Hotel Mussidan? ” 

“Yes; that would be a very good idea. 
Your carriage is at the door, is it not? 
You can go as a physician to visit Sabine.” 

The doctor thrust his arms into the 
sleeves of his coat, but Mascarot stopped 
him. 

“ No,” he said, “ I have changed my 


mind. Neither of us ought to be seen near 
that house. I fancy, doctor, one of our 
mines has exploded ; it was too heavily 
charged. I fancy that there has been an 
explanation between the count and the 
countess, and between the two the daugh- 
ter has been struck down.” 

“ But how shall we know? ” 

“ I will see Florestan, and discover some- 
thing.” 

And, without another word, he dashed 
into his room and changed his clothes with 
the greatest possible dispatch. Through 
the open door he continued to talk to the 
doctor. 

This blow would be nothing if I had 
not so much on hand jusf now, but I have 
to attend to Paul. The Champdoce mat- 
ter must be hurried on ; and. Catenae, that 
traitor who has put Perpignan and the 
duke in communication. I must see Per- 
pignan and find out just how much has 
been told him, and just how much he has 
guessed. I must see Caroline Schemel, 
also, and extract some information from 
her. Would that the twenty-four hours 
were thirty-six.” 

He was ready, and called the doctor to 
him. 

“lam off,” he said, in a low voice: 
“ and do you not lose sight for one single 
moment of Paul. We are not yet sure 
enough of him to let him loose with our 
secret. Take him to dine at Martin Re- 
gal’s, and then make some excuse for in- 
sisting upon his spending the night with 
you. See me to-morrow.” 

And he went out, too preoccupied to 
hear the cheerful parting words of the 
good doctor. 

“Good luck,” cried Hortebise, “good 
luck!” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

On leaving the Hotel Mussidan, after 
his promise to Sabine, Monsieur de Breulh- 
Faverlay did not enter his phaeton, which 
was waiting for him in front of the door. 

“ Go slowly home.” he said to his coach- 
man, “I will follow you on foot.” 

He felt, as often happens after a crisis, 
ail almost imperious necessity for rapid 
motion. He wished to be alone and to 
weary himself out moreover, thinking that 
in that way he could best collect his ideas 
and recover his self-posession. He had 
received a shock, in which surprise was 
greatly mingled, and was stunned as if by 
a fall. There were so many years that he 
had felt nothing that he supposed himself 
to have lost much of his sensibility. 

His friends would have been profoundly 
amazed had they seen him striding along 
the Champs Elysees. His beautiful calm 
of manner had gone, the icy impassibility 
of his countenance was shivered — his 
emotion carried him so utterly out of him- 
self that actually, as he walked he talked 
aloud and gesticulated. 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS, 


99 


“And this is life!” he said. “A man 
believes himself to be sheathed in a coat 
of mail — he calls himself blase, aged, 
hardened — and lo! one look from two 
beautiful eyes makes him a school-boy 
once more ; he blushes and stammers and 
even — confound it all! detects a little 
moisture in the corner of his eye ! ” 

He loved Sabine on the day that he 
asked her hand of her father — but not as 
he loved her now that he knew she could 
never be his wife. 

From the moment he made this discov- 
ery she appeared to him to be endowed 
with every charming gift. Who would 
ever have supposed that in the petted idol 
of society, he who was adored by all the 
women, and feared by all the men as a 
rival, could be’ refused on the day that he 
oflered to a young girl his fortune and his 
name. 

“ Yes,” he said to himself, regretfully, 
“ she is just the companion of whom I 
dreamed. Where could 1 find so tender a 
nature, so intelligent a mind, so much in- 
nocence and frank fearlessness among the 
foolish dolls around me, who dress, and 
chatter, and talk slang, and in fact imitate 
in every i)ossible way the characterless 
women of whom we read? Is there an- 
other Sabine among the senseless creat- 
ures who look on life as a perpetual cotil- 
lon, and who take a husband as they 
choose a partner, because — a girl cannot 
waltz alone?” 

He hated all other women at this precise 
moment. 

What a noble expression her face bore, 
he thought, as she spoke of him. She be- 
lieves in him entirely, and she adopts every 
one of his whims. With what beautiful 
pride she said : 

“We — we are poor! We have no 
name ! ” 

“ Pshaw ! ” he exclaimed, with an angry 
toss of his head; the result of this affair 
is, that I shall certainly die a bachelor. 
My valet in my old age will become my 
very best friend. I will make a god of my 
stomach. Baron Brisac declares that one 
can comfortably eat four meals a day. 
That is something to look forward to ; and 
to quicken my digestion, I will permit my 
heirs to quarrel around my chair.” 

He shivered, but added presently, with a 
deep sigh : 

“ Ah ! my life has been a failure ! ” 

Meanwhile, cruel as was the deception, 
cutting as the wound. Monsieur de Breulh 
saw nothing extraordinary in the fact that 
a woman should prefer another man to 
himself. He regretted it, but that was all. 
Sabine had judged him correctly when she 
said to herself, that he was a man worthy 
of the love of any woman. Monsieur de 
Breulh was deserving of a very different 
pedestal than the one to which his friends 
and enemies, equally idiotic — had elevated 
him. He was superior to his life, to his 


associates, and to the time in which he 
lived. 

On the death of his uncle he had thrown 
himself into what is called the whirlpool 
of fashionable dissipation, but he had soon 
wearied of this empty and restless life. 

To possess the most celebrated stable, to 
see the names of his horses in the sporting 
journals, to be deceived by some actress to 
the tune of two or three hundred sous was 
not enough to satisfy this somewhat fastidi- 
ous mortal. He had been seeking for some 
time to find some aim for his ambition, 
some task to which he could devote all his 
energy and intelligence. 

He had determined that on the eve of 
his marriage he would sell his race horses 
and break up his old life entirely, and now 
this long wished for marriage would never 
take place ! 

When he entered his club the traces of 
his emotion were so evident, that several 
young men around the card tables ex- 
changed looks of dismay and hastened to 
ask if by chance Chambertin, the famous 
racer on whom heavy bets were made — 
were not ill. 

“ No,” he answered, as he hurried into a 
small room devoted to letter-writing, 
“ No, Chambertin is all right.” 

“ What ill luck has come to De Breulh? ” 
asked one of the club men. 

“ Heaven only knows ! he evidently is in 
great haste to send off a letter.” 

He was in fact writing an epistle to 
Monsieur de Mussidan and as it was to re- 
tract his word and demand, the task was 
not an easy one. And, on reading 
over his letter, De Breulh perceived that 
every word breathed a certain ironical bit- 
terness, and that its general tone indicated 
a disturbance and displeasure which would 
assuredly elicit a question as to what it 
meant. 

A man may be chivalric, but he is still 
human, and some germs of evil ferment 
under the most generous resolutions. 

“ No,” said the young man, “ this letter 
is unworthy of me.” 

And upon this reflection, he began again 
offering some conventional excuse, speak- 
ing vaguely of his life and of the difficulty 
of breaking up old habits, and of a liaison 
which he could not terminate as he had 
intended. This little chef Fceuvre of diplo- 
macy brought to a conclusion, he handed 
it to a servant, with directions to carry it 
instantly to its address. 

Monsieur de Breulh had thought, this 
duly fulfilled and his vessels burned, that 
he should feel free in mind and body. But 
he was mistaken. 

He took a seat at a card-table, but he 
left it in ten minutes. He ordered dinner, 
but he had no appetite, and could not eat. 
He went to the opera, yawned, and the 
music made him nervous. 

At last he went home. The day had 
seemed a year long. He could not sleep. 


100 


THE SLAVES OF FAB IS, 


Sabine’s fair face floated before him. Who 
was the man she preferred? 

He esteemed Mademoiselle de Mussidan 
too much not to feel certain that her choice 
was worthy of her. At the same time he 
had too much experience of life not to 
know that there are many passions that 
are inexplicable ! When so many experi- 
enced men of the world are so often carried 
off their feet and deceived, was it not 
quite possible for a young girl to be equally 
mistaken. 

"MVhat can I do for her?” said Mon- 
sieur de Breulh to himself, can I open 
her eyes in any way?” Then, to excuse 
himself probably, for indulging in the 
faintest shadow of hope after what had 
taken place, he added : 

If he be worthy of her, so be it, and I 
will aid her to overcome the obstacles in 
her path!” 

He pleased himself with this idea, and 
enjoyed a bitter pleasure in feeling that he 
might be able to ensure the happiness ot 
her whom he loved, and who rejected him. 

Perhaps, without his knowing it, there 
was mingled with this generosity a vague 
desire to display his generosity to Sabine 
and awake her admiration, if not her love. 

At four o’clock in the morning he was 
still sitting in his arm-chair in front of the 
dying embers of his fire. He had almost 
decided to see Andre. When a man is rich 
it is very easy for him to find an excuse to 
visit the atelier of a painter. As to what 
he would do, what he would say when he 
g jt there, he had no idea, and left this to 
c nance. He finally slept on this determi- 
nation, but the next morning he hesitated. 
Why should he meddle in what was really 
no concern of his? The truth was, how- 
ever, that he was spurred on by curiosity. 
Consequently, at about two o’clock he 
gave the order for his horses to be brought 
round, and in a few minutes he was driving 
rapidly towards the Kue de la Tour D’Au- 
vergne. 

‘‘Madame Poilevin, the discreet con- 
cierge of Andre’s mansion, was leaning on 
her broom in the door-way when the mag- 
nificent equipage of Monsieur de Breulh 
drew up before her. 

The good woman was absolutely dazzled. 
Never before in all her life had she beheld 
such showy studs, nor seen so much silver 
on a harness. The carriage was perfect, 
and the liveried coachman and footman 
gorgeous to behold. 

"‘Good heavens!” she thought, “he 
can’t be coming here for us. He is cer- 
tainly mistakenln the house.” 

But her amazement was still greater 
when Monsieur de Breulh emerged from 
his coupe, and asked : 

‘‘Does Monsieur Andre, the artist, live 
here?” 

“ To be sure he does, and has been here 
for two years. Ah ! if all artists were only 
like him ! Never once has he been behind- 


hand with his rent. And then he is so or- 
derly and sensible, so polite and consider- 
ate. There is never any rioting in his 
rooms. In my opinion he is absolutely 
perfect. The little lady of the Champs 

Elysees But there, now, my tongue is 

running away with me.” 

She talked on mechanically, without 
knowing what she was saying^ so great 
was the curiosity with which she was 
watching the owner of this magnificent 
equipage. 

“Which is his studio?” interrupted 
Monsieur de Breulh, becoming impatient. 

‘'On the fourth story — to the right — 
name on the door — can't make a mistake,” 
jerked out the concierge. “But I will 
show you the way, sir.” 

“By no means, I will not trouble you.” 

And Monsieur de Breulh went toward 
the stairs, leaving Madame de Poilevin as 
motionless as Lot’s wife after her crystalli- 
zation. 

‘•What is going on?” she murmured. 
“ Coming to see Monsieur Andre at this 
hour and with all this parade ! I don't un- 
derstand it, for Monsieur Andre never has 
put on any airs. Why, for four days Poil- 
evin has never put a broom to his rooms, 
but never a word of complaint has been 
made. But of course things can't be let 
go that way again. An artist who has 
friends like these coming to see him must 
betaken better care of. But I must really 
find out who this great lord may be ! ” 

She placed the broom behind the door 
and turned her attention to the footman. 

In the meantime Monsieur de Breulh had 
mounted the stairs with great deliberation. 
He evidently did not wish to arrive at the 
top entirely out of breath. 

On the upper floor he knocked at the 
door on which he read Andre’s name. At 
that moment he heard a quick, j^outhful 
step running up the stairs. He turned, 
and found himself face to face with a 
young man, tali and very dark, and dressed 
in one of those long white blouses which 
plasterers wear about their work. In his 
hand he hel l a huge tin pail which he had 
evidently just filled at the reservoir. 

Monsieur Andre? ” asked Monsieur de 
Breulh. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ I wish to speak to you.” 

“ Be kind enough, then, sir, to come in 
here.” • 

And the young painter opened the door 
of his studio and showed his visitor in. 

Monsieur de Breulh’s first impression of 
Andre had been extremely favorable. He 
had, in fact, been struck by the frank 
countenance, by the clear honest eyes, and 
by the full rich voice. 

But while he said: “He is a manly, 
good-looking fellow,” he was shocked, in 
spite of his having thrown aside nia^ of 
his youthful prejudices, by the c^5^xiirne 
which Andre wore. It was difficult for 


THE SLAVES OF PAHIS, 


101 


him to believe that a man beloved by Sa- 
bine de Mussidan could wear a blouse and 
go to the pump for water. But he allowed 
none of t.iis surprise to be visible and had 
regained since the previous evening the in- 
different air which was habitual to him. 

I ought, sir,” began Andre, “ to apol- 
ogize for receiving you thus. But the 
truth is, when one is not wealthy one is 
never well served except by oneself ! ” 

As he spoke he threw off his blouse 
without the smallest embarrassment, and 
placed his pail in the corner. His air and 
manner pleased Monsieur de Breulh, who 
smiled cordially. 

‘^It is for me to apologize,” he said, 
for my intrusion. I was sent here by 

one of my friends ” 

He hesitated for a name. 

Ah, yes. By the Prince Crescensi, 
perhaps ! ” 

Monsieur de Breulh hardly knew this 
cebrated amateur, but he snatched at the 
perch which his companion extended. 

“Precisely!” he answered. “The 
prince extols your talent and speaks of 
you with the greatest enthusiasm. Having 
the utmost confidence in you, he told me 
that I could safely entrust to your hands 
the execution of a picture which I want, 
and I assure you your work will be in 
good company ! ” 

Andre bowed, coloring as deeply as a 
school-girl complimented by a lord bishop. 

“ I am infinitely obliged to you,” he 
said, “for taking the opinion of the 
prince, but I am afraid you will be disap- 
pointed ” 

“ And why? ” 

“ Because 1 have been so busy the last 
few months in other ways that I have 
really nothing to show you. 

“ Nevfer mind,” interrupted his visitor, 
“ we have the future before us. What is 
not done you can do.” 

“ That is very true, sir, if you are dis- 
posed to place confidence in me ” 

“Of course I am,” interrupted De 
Breulh. 

“In that case,” answered Andre, with a 
smile, “ we have only to choose a subject.” 

Andre by this time, had completed the 
conquest of his visitor, who said to him- 
self : 

“ I ought, of course, to hate this fellow, 
but upon my life, I think I like him better 
than any one I ever saw ! ” 

Andre, in the meantime, had lifted a 
huge portfolio to the table, and opened it. 

“I have here,” he said, about thirty 
sketches, which would make, I hope, re- 
spectable pictures, and if one of these 

should happen to suit you ” 

“ Let us examine them,” said De Breulh, 
courteously. 

Having made his estimate of the young 
man’s character, he now wished to judge 
of him as an artist. He examined sketch 
after sketch in the portfolio with serious 


attention, and then proceeded to those 
hanging on the walls. 

Andre did not speak, but he said to him- 
self that this order would probably be the 
winning point in his fortunes. 

Prince Crescensi was one of the seven 
or eight European amateurs whose fiat 
would sell the merest sketch for ten thou- 
sand francs. 

But Andre was in no mood to rejoice, 
for he was more sad and hopeless that 
morning than ever before in his harassed 
life. Two evenings previous Sabine had 
left him, after saying that she was about 
to take a decisive step and would write to 
him in the morning. 

The morning has passed, and also the 
daj^', and now at four o’clock on the second 
not one word had he received from her. 
He was on thorns — not that^ he doubted 
Sabine, but because he had no means of 
ascertaining anything that was going on 
in the Hotel de Mussidan, whose doors 
were absolutely closed to him. 

He endured, therefore, at this moment, 
precisely that torture which an energetic 
man finds so intolerable when he feels that 
his destiny is being decided, and knows 
that he is powerless to hasten the decision, 
or to render it favorable. 

Meanwhile Monsieur de Breulh had fin- 
ished his examination, and concluded that 
Andre's talent was indisputable, although 
there was evidence of haste and inexperi- 
ence, and even some great faults — but 
they were all full of originality. Andre 
was a true artist in the broadest sense of 
the phrase. 

To say that De Breulh’s heart did not 
bleed under the fierce claws of jealousy, 
would be to say too much. But he crushed 
all unworthy sentiments with an iron will, 
and frankly and loyally extended his hand 
to the young painter. 

“When I came here,” he said, “it was 
merely my intention of ordering a picture 
of you; but now I can truthfully say that 
1 am very anxious to become the owner of 
one. It is no longer the opinion of a friend 
which influences me — I see and feel your 
talent.” 

And as Andre did not speak he went on. 

“1 have chosen my sketch,” he said 
“ now we will discuss it in detail.” 

Poor, without patrons, and influenced by 
any school, hampered moreover by the rude 
task necessitated by his poverty, Andre 
had had neither time nor means to study 
his compositions and form them after 
classic models. He contented himself with 
repeating what he saw and felt. 

Among his sketches there was one which 
he called, “At the Turnpike.” In the 
foreground two men were fighting and a 
third endeavoring to separate them. Their 
torn garments displayed their naked bod- 
ies; their muscles stood out like ropes; 
their faces were convulsed with hatred, 
wine, and anger. A little to the right lay 


102 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


a woman, unconscious and bleeding from 
a wound in the temple, and two of her 
terrified companions were leaning over her 
seeking to bring her back to life. A few 
figures — children running away in fright 
and in the distance policemen hurrying to 
the rescue — made up the picture. Com- 
monplace, but true — and it is truth alone 
in these days that can save art — and it 
was that sketch that Monsieur de Breulh 
selected. 

Then Andre entered into the details of 
the composition and proportions of the 
figures, the dimensions of the canvas. In 
short, nothing was forgotten. 

His visitor, with voice and gesture, ap- 
proved of all. 

Whatever you do,” he said, ‘‘ will be 
well done, of that I am certain. Let noth- 
ing happen — you follow your inspira- 
tions.” 

He was really in an agony to get away ; 
his nature and his delicacy was too great 
for him not to feel keenly how false his 
position was. 

When all else was arranged it cost De 
Breulh a violent efibrt to broach the money 
part of the affair. But if he looked for 
any false modesty and affected disinter- 
estedness he was disappointed, for he met 
with none. 

‘‘Monsieur,” said Andre, the value of 
such a picture would be difficult for me to 
state. A canvas of the dimensions you 
name costs eighty francs; covered with 
paint, it may be worthless or it may be 
priceless. Wait until it is finished to de- 
cide.” 

“ Do you think,” interrupted Monsieur 
de Breulh, ‘ ‘ that ten thousand francs ” 

Andre protested by a gesture. 

“Too much!” he exclaimed, “far too 
much I No, sir. As yet I have no reputa- 
tion. If I succeed with it, as I hope to do 
I will then ask six thousand francs for it.” 

“ Very well,” said Monsieur de Breulh, 
as he took from his pocket an elegant Rus- 
sia leather case with his monogram, and 
laid upon the table three notes of a thou- 
sand francs each. “ I will pay you,” he 
said, ‘‘as is usual, half in advance.” 

The young painter turned scarlet. 

“You are jesting, sir,” he stammered. 

“Not at all,” answered De Breulh, 
gravely. “I have certain fixed principles 
in business matters from which I never 
depart.” And then, in the most encourag- 
ing tone, he added: “These notes are 
given instead of a written contract, that is 
all. 

In spite of this assurance, Andre’s pride 
was wounded. 

“ But,” he said, “ I cannot give you this 
picture for five or even six months. I 
have made an engagement with a wealthy 
builder, Gandelu by name, to do some 
carving on a house.” 

“ Never mind.” said Monsieur de Breulh, 
“take your ovm time.” 


Of course it was not possible for Andre 
to make any further opposition, unless he 
wished to look like a fool. He therefore 
assented quietly, and even added that the 
money came at a time when it was much 
needed. 

“ Now,” said De Breulh pausing at the 
open door, “let me wish you good luck 
and success in all you undertake. In the 
meantime, if you will come some morning 
and breakfast with me, I will show you a 
Murido which will gladden your heart ! ” 
And as if to confirm the invitation, he gave 
the artist his card and departed. 

Andre did not at first look at the card, 
but when his eyes fell upon it, the name 
of De Breuih-Faverlay started out like a 
fiash of lightning across a thunderous sky. 
For a moment he could not breathe, and 
then he was shaken from head to foot 
with intense anger. He saw that he had 
been cajoled, bribed — trifled with! 

Hardly knowing what he was doing, he 
dashed out on the landing, and leaning over 
the railing, he called aloud : 

“ Monsieur ! Monsieur I” 

De Breulh, who was now on'the lower 
floor, looked up. 

“Come back!” cried Andre, “come 
back!” 

After a moment's hesitation the gentle- 
man obeyed, and when he was again in 
the studio, Andre said to him in a voice 
that was choked with indignation. 

“ Take back your money, sir; I will not 
have it ! ” 

“ What on earth do you mean?” 

“ Simply that I have reflected. I cannot 
paint a picture for you.” 

“ Ah ! indeed — and why, pray ? ” 

“ Why? Monsieur de Breulh knew per- 
fectly well why. He knew instantly that 
Sabine had named him and his hopes. 
With a certain lack of generosity, and even 
of delicacy, he took advantage of the ditfi- 
cult position of the young artist. 

“ Because,” stammered Andre. 

“Because is no reason,” said De Breulh, 
mercilessly. 

Andre became more and more confused. 
To give the reasons for his sudden revul- 
sion was impossible. He would have died 
rather than pronounce Sabine’s name. He 
saw that there was but one way out of his 
difficulty. 

‘“Well, then,” he answered, with a cold 
stare of disdain. “ your face displeases me I 
Is that a reason?” 

“ Do you mean to insult me. Monsieur 
Andre ? ” 

“ Just as you please I ” 

Patience was by no means the distin- 
guishing virtue of Monsieur de Breulh. 
He turned perfectly white, and started for- 
ward, but his natural generosity came to 
the rescue, and it was with an agitated 
voice that he said : 

“ Accept my apologies. Monsieur Andre. 
I have played a part — I fear unworthy of 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


103 


you and of me. I ought, when I first came 
in, to have given you my name, and said : 
‘I know all.’ ” 

“ I do not understand you, sir,” answered 
Andre, in icy tones. 

“ If you do not understand me why do 
you doubt me then? I have deserved your 
distrust, however. Cease to feign. Mad- 
emoiselle Sabine has spoken to me with 
the most entire frankness. And if you 
doubt my words and require a proof of 
my assertion, let me tell you that the can- 
vas there, with its face to the wall, is the 
portrait of Mademoiselle de Mussidan.” 

As Andre still did not speak. Monsieur 
de Breulh smiled sadly. 

‘‘ I will say, furthermore,” he resumed, 
‘‘that yesterday, at Mademoiselle Sabine’s 
request, I withdrew my demand for her 
hand.” 

Andre had been profoundly touched by 
the young man’s hearty self-condemnation, 
and these last words finished his subjuga- 
tion. 

‘•I can never thank you, sir ” he 

began. 

But De Breulh interrupted him. 

“ A man needs no thanks,” he said, “for 
doing his duty. I should not tell you the 
truth, were I to deny that I was most 
painfully surprised. But tell me, would 
you not "have done the same thing had you 
been in my place?” 

“ 1 think I should.” 

“ And now we are friends, are we not?” 
and De Breulh extended his hand. 

Andre grasped the loyal hand extended 
to him. 

“ Yes, friends,” he stammered. 

De Breulh with forced gayety, then said : 

“ Let us say no more about the picture, 
which was in reality a pretext. I will be 
perfectly frank with you, I said to my- 
self, on my way here : ‘ If the man whom 
Mademoiselle Sabine prefers to me is wor- 
thy of her, I will do all in my power to 
induce her family to look favorably on his 
suit.’ I came here to sit in judgment upon 
you; and I now say to you: Do me a 
great pleasure, and a great honor : allow 
me to place at your disposal, myself and 
my fortune, my infiuence, and that of my 
friends.” 

It was with the enthusiasm of his earlier 
youth, and in the most absolute sincerity, 
that Monsieur de Breulh-Faverlay put him- 
self at the disposal of this young man 
whose happiness he so envied. 

A sacrifice, however great, purely and 
nobly made, is not without its recompense 
of a bitter joy. 

But Andre shook his head. 

“I will never forget your offers, sir. 
But ” 

He hesitated ; but suddenly resumed : 

“ I will be as frank as yourself, and will 
tell you the entire truth. You think me 
foolishly susceptible, undoubtedly, but 
you must remember that misfortunes, un- 


less they destroy all personal dignity, ex- 
cite and irritate one’s pride. I love 
Mademoiselle de Mussidan with all my 
heart. There is not one drop of blood in 
my veins that is not devoted to her ser- 
vice, and yet ” 

He checked himself, and then with re- 
strained violence, added ; 

“ Pray, do not take offence at what I am 
about to say. I would renounce Made- 
moiselle Sabine forever rather than accept 
your assistance.” 

“ But that is absolute folly.” 

“ Yo, sir, no. It is not folly : it is wis- 
dom. Were I to accede to your wishes, I 
should feel myself profoundly humiliated 
by your self-abnegation ; I should be 
madly jealous of the role you played. Am 
I not already sufiiciently conscious of your 
superiority? You are one of the wealthi- 
est men in Paris ; you belong to one of the 
most distinguished families in France. 
While I am poor, I am so utterly alone 
and unknown, sir, that I have never even 
been summoned for the conscription. All, 
in short, that I lack you have ” 

“ But I have been poor,” replied De 
Breulh ; “I have been more wretched, pos- 
sibly, than ever you have been.” 

Andre, who of course knew nothing of 
the past of his new friend, and saw him 
only in his present dazzling position, looked 
at him in astonishment. 

“ Do you know what I was doing at your 
age?” continued the gentleman. I was 
dying of hunger at Sonora. To keep my- 
self from starvation I was reduced to put- 
ting on a workman’s frock, and I entered 
the service of a cattle raiser. Do you think 
that I learned nothing in those days? ” 

“ Then,” exclaimed the young artist, 
“ all this will enable you to judge me more 
clearly. I am willing to admit myself to 
be your equal then — but the day I accept 
assistance from you of a pecuniary nature 
that equality would cease. Was it not to 
my energy and my courage that I owe 
Mademoiselle de Mussidan's consideration. 
She had faith in me from the days that she 
said, ‘raise yourself to my level.’ She or- 
dered me to do this. I will obey her or 
perish in the attempt ; but I am also deter- 
mined to succeed or perish alone. I do 
not choose that any other man shall be 
able to say or to feel : it is to my rare gen- 
erosity, to my chivalric unselfishness that 
Andre owes all his happiness.” 

“Oh, monsieur,” protested De Breulh 
— “ monsieur.” 

“^^^o,” interrupted Andre, “you must 
not misunderstand me I I know very well 
that no such words would ever pass your 
lips ; but you could not help thinking them. 
I should know it — and the daughter of 
the noble Count de Mussidan, then the wife 
of the painter Andre, would know it too. 
That is to say I should be Sabine’s husband 
only after being despoiled of my sole title 
to nobility, my pride and independence. 


104 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


Our very marriage would be her disillu- 
sion, involuntarily sh3 would institute a 
comparison between us. What should I 
then be in her eyes ? No, no, my life would 
be poisoned — your ghost would rise be- 
tween my wife and myself ! ” 

He stopped short, aghast at his own vio- 
lence. Another sentence and he would 
have seemed to threaten this gallant man 
who showed such generous kindness to 
him. He struggled to regain his self-con- 
trol, and then, in a tone of perfect cour- 
tesy, added: 

“ But I am talking at random, sir, for 
we owe you much already, and I hope you 
will allow me to consider myself your 
friend.” 

Like Sabine — he said: ‘‘we.” And, 
just as Sabine had predicted, he rebelled 
against the mere appearance of patronage 
and protection. 

But Monsieur de Breulh was man enough 
to comprehend Andre’s conduct, which 
will possibly bring a smile to the lips of 
IDi'ople in these da37'S, when all serious and 
exalted sentiments are considered prepos- 
terous and affected. But he felt too much 
to speak. He quietly replaced in his pock- 
et-book the bank-notes, and then said, in a 
low voice : 

I approve of your conduct, sir ; and re- 
member that, at all times and at all seasons, 
3 ^ou may rely upon Breulh-Faverlay. 
Farewell ! ” 

When he was again alone, Andre realized 
that he was less unhappy than he had been 
for two days. Thanks to Monsieur de 
Breulh, he knew now that it was some un- 
foreseen obstacle that had detained Sabine ; 
and although astonished at her delay, he 
was no longer alarmed. It was impossible, 
however, for him to work, and he threw 
himself into an arm-chair and endeavored 
to recall the most trivial detail of the scene 
that had just taken place. He would have 
totally forgotten the dinner-hour if Ma- 
dame Poilevin had not entered without the 
ceremony of a. knock. 

“ Here is a letter, she said; “ the post- 
man has just left it.” 

It was an unheard of event for Madame 
PoUevin to carry a letter to the fourth floor ; 
but the artist had assumed extraordinarj^ 
importance in her eyes since she had seen 
the carriage of his recent visitor. 

But Andre was so preoccupied that this 
surprising complaisance did not strike him. 
lie had no thoughts but for Sabine. 

A letter ! ” he exclaimed, starting up ; 
and taking it, he tore it open and glanced 
at the signature. But it was not from 
Sabine, and was signed “ Modeste.” 

Modeste was Mademoislle de Mussidan’s 
maid. What did this mean? He shuddered 
with a presentiment of some great misfor- 
tune, and in a bewildered way he read the 
letter : 

“ I address you, sir, to inform you that 
mademoiselle succeeded in the matter she 


undertook ; but I am sorry to say that I 
have also bad news for you. Mademoiselle 
is very ill.” 

These few words struck terror to Andre’s 
soul. “ Sabine ill! ” he stammered, with- 
out paying any heed to Madame Poilevin’s 
eager ears. “ Sabine too ill to write me 
herself ! She may be in danger ! She may 
even be dead I ” He repeated the last word 
with wild eyes — “ Dead ! dead I ” But in 
a moment he crumpled the disastrous letter 
in his hand, threw it on the floor, and 
without a hat and clothed in his white 
blouse, he dashed down the stairs and into 
the street. This last scene put the finish- 
ing touch to Poilevin's astonishment. 

” Well, well! ” she said slowly. There 
la}^ the letter on the floor. She picked it 
up, smoothed it out carefully, and read it. 
‘•And so,” she murmured, “the little 
lady’s name is Sabine. A pretty name, to 
be sure! And she is ill is she? I have a 
notion that the old gentleman who came 
here early this morning and questioned 
me in regard to Monsieur Andre would 
give considerable for this letter. But no 
— that would never do ! ” 


CHAPTER XX. 

When Madame Poilevin came to the 
conclusion that her artist was mad, she was 
not, perhaps, so very far from the truth. 
Her opinion probably was the same as 
that of all the persons who met this tall 
young man in his white blouse, who 
rushed with almost inconceivable rapidity 
along the streets which led from the Quar- 
tier des Martyrs to the Champs Elysecs. 

As he left his house he saw an empty 
fiacre, but he did not think of taking it, 
for could those miserable hacks move as 
swiftly as his strong young limbs? He 
threaded his way through the crowd so 
hastily, and had so strange an expression, 
that people quickly moved aside to let him 
pass, and then turned to look after him. 

He had no idea what he should do when 
he reached the Hotel de Mussidan. Sabine 
was ill, dying possibly — he only wished 
to get nearer her. 

In Paris just such people are to be seen 
every hour in the da}^ ; people who hurry 
along without seeing or hearing — driven 
on by their passions as bullets are impelled 
by an explosion of powder. 

It was only on reaching the Rue de 
Matignon that Andre recovered his senses 
enough to reflect and deliberate. 

As much to regain full possession of his 
faculties as his breath, he sat down on a 
mile stone a few steps from the Hotel de 
Mussidan. 

He had reached the spot ! — and now, 
how should he go to work to obtain the 
information he wanted? 

It was dark. The slender gas jets were 
visible through one of those February fogs 
which always follow sharp frosts. It was 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


105 


cold. The Rue de Matignon, always un- 
frequented, was now absolutely deserted. 
Not a single fiacre rolled along, and not a 
single footstep was heard — nothing but 
the dull continuous roar of the carriages 
in the Faubourg Saint Honore. 

But the thoughts of the young painter 
were even sadder than this nis^ht, this 
silence, and this solitude. He recognized 
with absolute despair that he was utterly 
powerless. He could not move hand or 
foot without compromising the woman 
whom he adored. 

He rose and went toward the gate of 
the hotel ; he hoped that the new aspect 
of the building would tell him something. 
It seemed to him, were Sabine dying, that 
the very stones would cry out in horror. 
But the house was wrapped in fog. and he 
could hardly tell which of the windows 
were lighted. His reason told him to go 
away, and wait patiently ; but a more im- 
perious voice said : ‘‘ Wait I ” 

And he waited. Why? He did not 
know. It seemed to him that Modeste, 
who had written, would divine the fact 
that he was there, suffering an agony of 
suspense, and that she would cohie to look 
for him. All at once a thought came to 
him. It was like a flash of lightning 
athwart a dark sky. 

Monsieur de Breulh,” he exclaimed. 
“If I cannot get in there, he can, of 
course ! ” 

Fortunately he had in his pocket that 
gentleman’s card and address, and without 
losing an instant hurried to find him. 

Monsieur de Breulh-Faverlay had a 
beautiful hotel in the Avenue de l’Impera- 
trice, where he himself was very un- 
comfortable on many accounts. But his 
horses had air and space; they were com- 
fortable, and as for himself, it did not 
matter. 

When Andre entered the courtyard, a 
carriage stood there. Four or five foot- 
men were talking and laughing in the well 
lighted vestibule. He went dmectly to- 
ward them. 

“ I wish to see Monsieur de Breulh,” he 
said. 

The footmen looked at him from head to 
foot with mingled contempt and surprise. 

“Monsieur has gone out,” they said at 
last. 

^ Andre understood, and having by this 
time recovered his senses, he took Mon- 
sieur de Breulh* s card and wrote on it in 
pencil these five words : 

“ One minute — a service — Andre.” 

“ Take this, and give it to your master 
as soon as he comes in.” 

He then went down the steps slowly. 
He was sure Monsieur de Breulh was in 
the house, and that as soon as the card 
was received he would send out in pursuit 
of the person who had left it. 

He was right, and in less than five min- 
utes he was overtaken by a lacquey, who 


at once introduced him into a magnificent 
library. 

As soon as Andre appeared, De Breulh 
divined a catastrophe. 

“ What is it? ” he asked hastily. 

“ Sabine is dying,” answered the young 
painter, who at once proceeded to recount 
all that had happened since he had seen 
De Breulh a few hours before. 

“ But what can I do. my poor fellow, 
to put an end to your uncertainty and 
anxiety? ” 

“You, sir? Why, you can go at once 
and inquire at the hotel.” 

“Think a moment: yesterday, I wrote 
to Monsieur de Mussidan to notify him of 
my desire to break ofi' a marriage that 
was almost arranged. To send in twenty- 
four hours to inquire for the health of his 
daughter, were to be guilty of unpardon- 
able impertinence. To send one of my 
servants would really amount to saying : 

‘ I have withdrawn, and your daughter is 
dying of grief.’ ” 

Monsieur de Breulh was quite as much 
agitated as the young artist, who mur- 
mured under his breath : 

“You are right.” 

But De Breulh was fruitful in expedients. 

“I am a distant relative,” he said, at 
last, of a Indy, who is a relative also of 
the Mussidans — the Vicomtesse de Bois 
d’Ardon. She will be delighted to serve 
us; she is a foolish young creature, but 
as good as gold. Come, my carriage is in 
the court-yard.” 

The lacqueys were amazed to see their 
master on such terms of intimacy with 
this young man in a blouse, and, when the 
carriage .drove off at full speed, an old, 
gray-haired footman announced, solemnly, 
that something very mysterious was going 
on. 

Not a word was spoken by these two 
men during their brief drive to the hotel 
inhabitated by Madame de Bois d'Ardon. 
The carriage had not fairly stopped, when 
Monsieur de Breulh was on the ground. 

“Wait for me,” he said to Andre; “I 
will be back in one moment.” 

In one bound he was in the house. 

“ Is madame at home?” he asked of the 
porter who knew him. 

“ Madame receives,” was the stately 
reply. 

White and dimpled, fresh and smiling — 
blonde, naturally — and rosy, thanks to 
the artifices of the toilet — with the loveli- 
est eyes in the world, Madame de Bois 
d’Ardon was called one of the most charm- 
ing women in Paris. She is thirty. She 
knows everything, has seen everything, 
fears nothing, talks incessantly, with con- 
siderable spirit and cleverness, and with 
also a dash of roguish malice. 

She 'Spends forty thousand francs per 
annum on her toilette ; but when she says 
to her husband, “I have not a gown to 
I put on my back,” she speaks the truth, for 


106 


TRE SLAVE 8 OF PARIS . 


she ruins everything she wears, either by 
her rapid motions tearing them to flitters, 
or upsetting her soup, or by some other 
bit of carelessness. 

She is always doing the most imprudent 
things, and is the victim of a thousand 
calumnies; she is credited with a dozen 
lovers — the truth being that she has never 
had one. In spite of all her nonsense, she 
adores her husband, and is horribly afraid 
of him! He knows that, but keeps the 
knowledge to himself, for he is wise. He 
permits the vicomtesse to fly about as she 
chooses, apparently, like a puppet at the 
end of a wire ; but he holds the wire with 
a firm hand. Such is the woman toward 
whom a footman, in a livery too showy to 
be in good taste, conducts Monsieur de 
Breulh. 

The lady was in an exquisite boudoir 
next her bedroom when De Breulh was 
announced. She had just placed the last 
pin in her toilette — the fifth she had made 
that day. She was now looking at a very 
coquettish costume, that of a Vivandiere 
in the reign of Louis Quinze, a chef d'muvre 
of Van Klopen’s, which she was going to 
put on after she returned from Les Italiens^ 
for a fancy ball at the Austrian ambas- 
sador’s. 

On seeing Monsieur de Breulh she ut- 
tered an exclamation of delight. Although 
they met rarely except in society, they 
were very fond of each other, and in their 
early youth had been in the habit of pass- 
ing a month each summer at the chateau 
of their uncle Count Faverlay, and had 
ever since kept up their friendly relations 
and called each other by their Christian 
names. 

‘‘You here at this hour, Goutran!” 
cried the lady. “It is a miracle, a dream 


The words died on her lips as she caught 
sight of her visitor’s pale, harassed coun- 
tenance. 

“ What is the matter? ” she asked. “ Is 
there any trouble ! ’ 

‘‘Not yet, I hope; but I am very anx- 
ious. I have just heard that Mademoiselle 
de Mussidan is dangerously ill.” 

“ Is it possible ! Poor Sabine ! WTiat is 
the matter with her?” 

“ I do not know, and that is precisely 
why I am here. I want you, Clotilde, to 
send one of your people at once to the 
hotel, to ascertain how much truth there is 
in what we have heard.” 

Madame de Bois d’Ardon opened her 
eyes wide. 

“ Are you jesting? ” she said. “ Why do 
you not send yourself? ” 

“ I cannot, and if you are charitable and 
kind you will not even ask me why. In 
the first place, I should not tell you the 
truth. In the next, I wish you to promise 
me faithfully never to mention to a human 
being that I asked you to do this.” 

Wild with curiosity as this mystery 


made the lady, she did not ask another 
question. 

“So be it then,” she said, “I respect 
your secret. I would go this moment 
were it not that Bois d’Ardon will never 
sit down at table alone, and he would 
scold me. But the moment we rise from 
dinner I will go.” 

“Thanks! a thousand thanks; and now 
I will go home and wait there for intelli- 
gence from you.” 

“ By no means. You will stay here and 
dine.” 

Impossible, a friend is waiting for me 
at the door.” 

The vicomtesse knew from De Breulh's 
tone that to insist would be utterly use- 
less. But she determined to find out this 
mystery sooner or later. 

“ Do as you please then,” she said, care- 
lessly. “I will send you a note this eve- 
ning.” 

De Breulh pressed her hand, and hurried 
down; Andre breathlessly received him at 
the door of the house, for he had not been 
able to sit still in the carriage. 

“Keep up your courage, my friend,” 
said De Breulh, “ Madame de Bois d’Ardon 
knows nothing of Mademoiselle Sabine’s 
illness. This, of course, speaks well. In 
any event, we shall know the truth in 
three hours.” 

” Three hours ! ” groaned Andre, in the 
same tone in which he might have said, 
“ three centuries.” 

“ It is a long time, I admit, but we will 
talk of her while we wait, for you are not 
to leave, but must remain and dine with 
me.” 

Andre nodded an assent. He had no 
longer energy to contest any point; he 
seemed to be almost benumbed. 

If the lacqueys at the hotel of Monsieur 
de Breulh had been infinitely surprised on 
seeing their master go out with the young 
man in a blouse, imagine their sensations 
when they saw the two return together; 
and the adventure finally assumed fantas- 
tic proportions when they saw their 
haughty master seated opposite Andre in 
his magnificent dining-room, and the 
maitre d'hotel was ordered from the room. 

The dinner was exquisite, but the two men 
were in no humor to appreciate it. They 
wielded their knives and forks mechani- 
cally, and drank as little as they ate. Over 
and over again they endeavored to speak 
on indifferent topics, but it was in vain. 
They so fully realized the inutility of their 
efforts that after dinner, when coffee was 
served in the library, they relapsed into 
profound silence. Their present situation, 
after the events of the morning, was odd 
enough. Andre never once took his eyes 
from the clock, while De Breulh sat with 
his riveted on the fire. Finally, just at 
ten, they heard a noise in the vestibule — 
whispers and the rustling of silk skirts. 
Monsieur de Breulh started up when the 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


107 


door opened, and Madame de Bois d’Ardon 
entered like a whirlwind. 

‘‘ It is 1,” she exclaimed. 

This performance of hers was no more 
hazardous than many another, but the 
vicomtesse did as she pleased generally. 

1 have come here, Goutran,” she ex- 
claimed, with the most extraordinary 
vehemence, to tell you what I think of 
your conduct; it is simply — abominable, 
unworthy of a gentleman.” 

^‘Clotilde!” 

‘‘Be quiet! you are a monster. Ah! 
yes, now I understand w^hy you did not 
dare send to find out about poor Sabine. 
You knew very well what the effect of 
your letter vvould be.” 

Monsieur de Breulh smiled, and turning 
to Andre said : 

“ What did I tell you? ” 

This observation awoke Madame de 
Bois d’Ardon to the fact that a stranger 
was present. She took it for granted tliat 
she had committed* some terrible indiscre- 
tion. 

'• Good heavens! ” she exclaimed, start- 
ing back, “ and I thought you were alone.” 

It is the same as if I were,” answered 
her host gravely; “this gentleman is a 
very dear friend from whom I have no 
secrets.” He laid his hand on Andre’s 
arm. 

Permit me, my dear Clotilde,” he said, 
“to present Monsieur Andre to you, a 
painter whose name is unknowm to-day but 
to-morrow will be celebrated.” 

Andre bowed profoundly, but the com- 
tesse for once in her life was silenced. 
The costume of this intimate friend utter- 
ly confounded her. And why this pecu- 
liar introduction? 

“ Then,” said Monsieur de Breulh, “ our 
information was correct.” He lightly 
accented the “ our.” ‘‘Mademoiselle de 
Mussidati is really ill.” 

“Alas!” 

“Did you see her?” exclaimed her 
cousin. 

“ Yes, I saw her, Goutran. Had you 
been with me your heart would have 
melted, you too would have regretted this 
fatal rupture. Poor Sabine, she did not 
know me. She did not even know that I 
was in the room. She lay in her bed 
whiter than the sheets, cold and stiff as a 
statute, her great eyes open wide, and for 
twenty hours she has lain in this condition. 
One would think her dead but for the tears 
that every few minutes roll down her 
cheeks.” 

Andre intended to repress every evi- 
dence of emotion in the presence of the 
vicomtesse, but his emotion was stronger 
than his will. 

“ Ah ! ” he cried, “ she will die, I know 
it perfectly well.” 

His tone was so full of anguish that the 
liglit-hearted lady was touched. 

“ I assure you, sir,” she said “ that you 


exaggerate the situation. There is no dan- 
ger — none at present, at all events. The 
physicians call it catalepsy, and they say 
it fs by no means an uncommon thing to 
occur with nervous persons on receiving 
a sudden shock.” 

“ But what shock could it have been in 
this case? ” asked Andre. 

The vicomtesse did not reply. She 
turned toward her cousin, and her eyes 
were filled with intense curiosity. What 
on earth has this man in a workman’s 
blouse to do with Sabine, and how did he 
come to be in that room? 

“ No one told me,” she said at last, 
“ that Sabine’s illness was caused by the 
rupture of her marriage, but I took it for 
granted ” 

“ And was very much mistaken. I 
know what I say, my dear cousin, and it is 
for this very reason that I am so much 
alarmed. But you have told us nothing 
after all, Clotilde.” 

Monsieui- De Breulh’s calmness — a 
look exchanged between himself and An- 
dre — enlightened the vicomtesse. 

“ I asked every question I dared,” she re- 
plied, “ but the answers were exceedingly 
vague. Sabine looked as if she were dead : 
her father and mother hovered over the 
bed like two ghosts. If they had killed 
her themselves with their own hands, re- 
m.orse could not have been written more 
clearly on their faces. They absolutely 
terrified me ” 

Monsieui* de Breulh interrupted the lady 
impatiently. 

Tell me,” he said, “ precisely what 
were the replies to your questions.” 

“I will tell you. First, it seems that 
Sabine had been so agitated all the morn- 
ing, that her mother asked her if she were 
ill.’' 

“We know that; we know also why 
this was.” 

•‘Ah!” said the vicomtesse, with an 
amazed stare. “ In the afternoon you 
were with Sabine, it seems. Where she 
went or where she was after you left her 
no one seems to know, but they have posi- 
tive proof that she did not go out of the 
hotel, and that she received no letter. At 
all events, it was nearly an hour before 
she went up to her room, where her maid, 
a nice girl who is devoted to her, sat sew- 
ing. Sabine said something to this girl, 
Modeste, who looked up quickly, and see- 
ing her mistress so very pale ran toward 
her. Just as she reached her, Sabine 
swayed and fell with a wild shriek. They 
took her up, placed her on the bed, and 
she has been in the state I describe ever 
since — she has neither spoken nor moved.” 

Andre hung on the lips of Madame de 
Bois d’Ardon. His imagination depicted 
Sabine as the vicomtesse had seen her. 

But De Breulh watched his cousin 
keenly. 

“ This is not all,” he said. 


108 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS, 


The lady started and avoided meeting 
liis eyes. 

‘‘1 do not understand you,” she said, 
nervously. Why do you look at me in 
that way ? ” 

He hesitated. He had had a large ex- 
perience of life, as he knew, for he had 
learned it by sad experience, that one 
must always distrust those deceitful ap- 
pearances which simpletons call the evi- 
dence of facts. He suddenly stopped 
before the coiiitesse, for he had been 
walking up and down the room. 

"‘My dear Clotilde.” he said, ‘-1 pre- 
sume that I am telling you nothing new 
when I say that you have been woefully 
slandered at times.” 

Pshaw ! What do I care.” 

‘"But I assure you that I have always 
judged you more fairly than the world. 
You are the very embodiment of impru- 
dence. Your presence here at this hour is 
proof of the truth of this assertion. You 
are worldly, frivolous, headstrong and very, 
very foolish ; but you are also, as 1 vei y 
w^ell know, a thoroughly good woman at 
heart; true as steel and courageous also.” 

“What are you driving at, Goutran? ” 

“To this, Clotilde: I want to know if 
there would be any risk in confiding to 
you a secret which involves the honor of 
two persons, and perhaps the lives of 
more?” 

Much more agitated than she w ished to 
appear, Clotilde rose. 

“ Thank you, Goutran,” she said, qui- 
etly, “ you have judged me truly.” 

But Andre, who now understood Mon- 
sieur de Breulh, came forward. 

"‘Have you any right to speak?” he 
asked. 

‘"My dear Andre,” answered his host, 
“my honor is ‘as much involved in this 
matter as yours is. Will you not trust 
me?” 

Then turning toward the vicomtesse, he 
added : 

“ Tell us the whole first.” 

“ Oh, the whole is very little, and only 
something I learned from Modeste. Hardly 
had you left the Hotel de Mussidan than 
Monsieur de Clinchan arrived.” 

“ Clinchan — an old maniac, is he not? 
A friend of the count's, I believe? 

“Precisely; they had a — well, what 
shall I call it — an altercation so frightful 
that finally De Clinchan was taken ill, 
and it was with the greatest difficulty that 
he was able to get down to his carriage.” 

“ Ah ! That is rather odd.” 

“ Wait a moment. After De Clinchan 
left. Octave and his wife had a scene. Y ou 
know my cousin — his voice thundered 
through the house. It was while this was 
going on that Sabine entered his room, and 
Modeste thinks she heard something.” 

Every word uttered by the comtesse 
strengthened De Breulh's suspicions. 

"‘You see, Clotilde,” he exclaimed. 


“ that there is something strange, and you 
will think so all the more when you know 
all.” 

And he at once, without omitting a sin- 
gle detail of any importance, told Andre’s 
and Sabine's story. Madame de Bois d’Ar- 
don shuddered as she listened — she was 
horrified and yet pleased. 

“ Forgive me,” she said, extending her 
hand as her cousin ceased speaking, “ my 
reproaches and accusations were most un- 
just — I am indeed of your opinion. There 
is some strange mystery.” 

“ And something, I fear, which will put 
another obstacle in our friend Andre" s 
path.” 

"‘Why do you say that?” asked the 
young painter, aghast. 

"" That I cannot tell. It is a mei e pre- 
sentiment. But now mark my words. At 
her request 1 have withdrawn all preten- 
sions to her hand, in your favor, you un- 
derstand, not to leave the field open to any 
intruder. Mademoiselle would not be my 
wife. She must be jmurs.” 

But,” said the vicomtesse, “ how are 
we to know what has happened? ” 

“We will discover it in some way or 
other — that is to say, if you are with us, 
and not against us.” 

There is not a woman in the world who 
is not enchanted at the prospect of busying 
herself over a marriage, and the vicom- 
tesse was particularly pleased to have any- 
thing to do with an affair that had opened 
so romantically. Far from discouraging 
her, the obstacles quickened her interest. 
Would not this be an excellent opportunity 
to prove once more the superiority of fem- 
inine penetration and diplomacy? She 
could hope to dwell in a delicious atmos- 
phere of mystery and diplomacy. 

“ I am entirely at your disposal,” she 
said. "‘ Have you arranged any plan? ” 

"" No, he had not as yet, but he would 
soon.” 

‘* So far as Mademoiselle de Mussidan is 
concerned, it would be folly to act other 
than with the utmost frankness.” 

“ Let us address ourselves to her di- 
rectly. Andre will write to her and ask 
for an explanation, and if she is better to- 
morrow you will see her and give her the 
note.” 

This proposition was certainly a remark- 
able one, but the vicomtesse never winked, 

“No, no! ” she said, with a wise litile 
air that was singularly becoming ; “ I think 
that would be a very unwise thing to do,*’ 

“ Do you think so?” 

“ I know it; but let Monsieur Andre de- 
cide.” 

Andre now came forward. 

“I think,” he said, “ that you are right. 
To let Mademoiselle de Mussidan see so 
suddenly that we have confided that which 
is hers even more than ours, to another 
person, w’^ould be, in my opinion, a very 
great imprudence.” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


109 


Tbe vicomtesse nodded approval. 

‘‘ If,'’ continued the artist, “ Madame la 
Vicomtesse will ask Modeste to meet me at 
the corner of the Avenue de Matignon, 
she will find me there.” 

‘‘ That is an excellent idea,” cried the 
lady; ‘‘I will execute your commission, 
sii% myself ” 

She stopped short, and uttered a pretty 
little shriek as she looked at the clock, the 
hands of which stood at twenty minutes of 
twelve. 

‘•Heavens!’' she cried, rising hastily, 

and lam going to a ball at the Austrian 
embassy, and am not dressed ! ” 

And with a coquettish little gesture, she 
drew her cashmere around her shoulders 
and ran away, crying out as she went 
down the stairs. 

“ I will stop here, Goutran, to-morrow, 
on my way to the Bois.'’ 

Her movements were so rapid, that be- 
fore Monsieur de Breulh could ring, or 
even follow her, she was gone. 

Andre and his host talked for a long time 
over the fire. 

It seemed so strange to them that they, 
who that morning had never seen each 
other, should npw be like two old and inti- 
mate friends w^hose afiection is founded on 
mutual esteem, not upon services given 
and received. Monsieur de Breulh wished 
to send Andre home in the carriage, but 
the young artist refused, asking only for 
an overcoat, which he put on over his 
white blouse. 

“ To-morrow,” he said to himself, as he 
went out into the street — ‘"to-morrow 
Modeste shall tell me all I want to know, 
provided that excellent but most frivolous 
young woman does not forget our exist- 
ence in the meantime.” 

But Madame de Bois d'Ardon could be 
in earnest sometimes. When she returned 
from the ball she did not go to bed, lest 
she should not awake in time to be at Mon- 
sieur de Mussidan's before ten o'clock, 
therefore, when Andre reached the ren- 
dezvous, he found Modeste awaiting him. 
The good girl's paleface and reddened eyes 
showed that she suffered with and for her 
young mistress. Sabine had not regained 
consciousness. The family physician did 
not express any anxiety, but he had asked 
for a consultation. This was all that 
Modeste could tell Andre on the first day, 
for in reality she had told all she knew to 
<lie vicomtesse. But the girl promised to 
meet Andre morning and night in the same 
place. 

For two days longer Sabine's situation 
was unchanged. Andre was growing des- 
perate. He spent his whole time in hurry- 
ing to the Hue de Matignon, and from there 
to Monsieur de Breulh's, where he often 
met Madame de Bois d’Ardon. But on the 
third day, when he met Modeste in the 
morning, he found her in great despair. 
The cataleptic attack was over, but Sabine 


was now stuggling with a nervous 
fever. 

The faithful maid and Andre were in 
such despair that they did not notice one 
of the servants from the Hotel Mussidan 
pass them — the same Florestan who had 
just been to mail a letter addressed to B. 
Mascarot. 

“ Listen, Modeste,” said Andre, in a low 
hurried voice. “ She is in danger, you say 
— very great danger? ” 

“ The doctor said that it must be decided 
by the end of the day whether she lived 
or died. Be here at five to-night.'’ 

Andre departed, with that irregular step 
common to persons who have lost their 
reason ; and when he reached De Breulh's 
house, he w^as so strange and excited his 
friend insisted on his lying down and try- 
ing to sleep. And finally, when five 
o'clock came, De Breulh insisted on going 
with him. As they turned the corner they 
saw Modeste hurrying to meet them. 

‘" She sleeps ! ” she cried ; “ and the doc- 
toi s say she is saved ! ” 

Andre tottered, and Monsieur de Breulh 
assisted him to a bench, upon which he 
sank in an almost unconscious state. They 
did not know that they were watched by 
two men — B. Mascarot and Florestan — 
not twenty paces off*, who lost not one of 
their movements. 

Aroused from his security by tho some- 
what laconic note of Florestan, Mascarot 
had jumped into the coupe of Dr. Horte- 
bise, which was standing at the door, and 
ordered the coachman to drive at full 
speed to the establishment of Father Can- 
on, where at this hour he had small 
doubt of finding Florestan. But he was 
not there. 

“He will be here soon, though,” said 
some one. 

But Mascarot, unable to endure any fur- 
ther suspense, sent for him to the Hotel 
Mussidan. 

When Florestan hastily appeared, and 
informed his wortliy patron that Sabine 
was better, then Mascarot breathed freely 
once more, and ceased to fear that the 
fragile edifice, built up by twenty years of 
patient intrigue, would crumble before his 
eyes into a thousand pieces. 

He frowned, however, when Florestan 
told him of the daily interviews between 
Modeste and the young man whom he 
called mademoiselle's lover. 

“Ah!” he murmured, “would that I 
could see one of these interviews ! ” 

“And why not, sir ?” asked Florestan, 
drawing from his vest pocket, as he spoke, 
a dainty little watch. “ Nothing would be 
easier, it seems to me. It is precisely the 
hour they meet; and, as it is always in 
the same place, you ” 

“ Come then,” interrupted his patron. 

They went out, but thinking it wiser to 
avoid being seen together, they took a cir- 
cuitous route to the Champs Ely sees. No 


110 


THE SLAVES OF FAB IS, 


more favorable spot for their plan could 
have been found, for near the corner of 
the Avenue de Matignon, on the side of 
the Cirque de I’linperatrice, were a half- 
dozen of those little wooden booths where 
in summer old women sold cakes and toys. 

“ Let us go behind one of these,” said 
Florestan. 

Night was approaching, and the gas- 
lighters, with their lanterns swinging from 
the little ladders over their shoulders, 
were beginning their duty at the further 
end of the avenue ; but, persons and things 
were still easily distinguished. For five 
minutes or more the worthy pair waited 
impatiently, then Florestan whispered : 

‘‘ Lookl there comes Modeste, and now 
the lover. But he has a friend with him 
to-night. What on earth can she be tell- 
ing them? He seems to be fainting. Do 
you see? ” 

B. Mascarot saw only too well. This 
scene did not please him, for to attack the 
happiness of a man who betrayed such 
ardent passion was a most dangerous thing 
to do. 

“Then,” said Mascarot, crossly, “ that 
great fellow gasping and floundering on 
the bench there is your young lady’s 
lover?” 

“ Precisely, sir.” 

“ Then we must find out who and what 
he is,” muttered Mascarot. 

Florestan assumed the wise look of a 
diplomatist, and chuckled softly. 

“ Oh ! you know all about him, then? ” 
asked his patron. 

“ To be sure I do,” answered the faith- 
ful lacquey. “ Day before yesterday I 
was smoking my pipe behind the gate of 
the hotel when I saw this young fighting- 
cock come down the street, but he did not 
hold his crest very high, I assure you. 
But I knew what it meant — if the young 
lady I loved, for instance, was ill, I should 
drag one foot along after the other just as 
he did. Well, I thought as I had nothing 
else to do I would find out who he was, 
so I follow^ed him with my hands in my 
pocket. He walked and walked until I 
was as tired as a dog. Finally he entered 
a house, and I, too, close at his heels. I 
went to the concierge and showed her my 
tobacco box, which I pulled out of my 
pocket, and said : 

“ ‘ I picked this up — that gentleman who 
has just come in dropped it. Do you know 
him? ’ 

“ ^ Of course I do,’ she answered, ‘ he is 
an artist, on the fourth floor — Monsieur 
Andre.’ ” 

“ Who lives in the Rue de la Tour d’ Au- 
vergne?” interrupted Mascarot. 

“ Precisely ! ” interrupted the lacquey, 
somewhat abashed. “You are better in- 
formed than I am, it seems,” he added, 
sulkily. 

Mascarot did not notice or care for this 
ill humor. He was struck by the strange 


persistence with which this young man 
came across his plans and combinations. 

Tbe day when the cook in the employ- 
ment of Rose — now, thanks to Gaston de 
Gandelu, knowm as the Vicomtesse Gora — 
had spoken to him of an artist, who knew 
of the former liaison of Rose and Paul Vio- 
laine, he had made it his immediate busi- 
ness to find out who that artist was. Tan- 
taine had assisted him, and in that way it 
came to pass that he had interviewed Ma- 
dame Poilevin. And now he made the dis- 
covery that this same artist was Mademoi- 
selle de Mussidan’s lover — the lover whom 
he always felt to be sadly in the way of 
the success of his schemes. 

“ But,” said Mascarot, “ you took your 
tobacco box from the concierge again, did 
you not? ” 

“Why, no, sir; I said I had found it. 
Of course I had to leave it with her.” 

“Imprudent !• most imprudent I ’* 

“ But why? ” asked Florestan. “ What 
harm can it do? ” 

Mascarot hesitated. He did not care to 
tell the fellow that he was intensely an- 
noyed that this proof of an investigation 
he had not ordered should be left in the 
hands of Poilevin. The merest trifle is 
sufficient sometimes to put astute persons 
on the track of the most complicated in- 
trigue. 

Was it not a scrap of paper that had been 
wrapped around a candle which exposed 
the conspiracy in the Rue Saint Denis? 
Was it not a thimblefull of cigar ashes on 
a mantel that betrayed Convinsi to Le Coq. 

“ Such trifles” he murmured to himself, 
“ often ruin a man.” 

Then he concentrated all his attention 
on Andre ; the young artist seemed to be 
himself again, and was speaking with great 
animation. Modeste seemed to be horror- 
struck; she shrank back and raised her 
arms to Heaven. 

“But who is the other?” whispered 
Mascarot, “he looks like an Englishman.” 

“Don't you know him? It is Monsieur 
de Breulh-Faverlay.*’ 

‘ ' Bless my soul ! Do you mean the man 
who was to marry mademoiselle? ” 

“ Of course I do.” 

Now, Mascarot was an adventurer 
whom nothing disconcerted or astonished, 
but this was too much; a frightful oath 
escaped from his lips. 

“Do you mean,” he said, “that De 
Breulh and this painter are friends ! ” ^ 

“That is more than I know; you are 
very curious, it seems to me.” 

That Mascarot was not altogether him- 
self was shown by this very question, for 
it was perfectly evident that the young men 
were on terms of the closest intimacy. 

Modeste had now left them, and they 
themselves turned into the Avenue de I’lm- 
peratrice arm in arm. 

“ It looks as if Monsieur de Breulh was 
easily consoled after his dismissal.” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


111 


“Dismissed; he was not dismissed! it 
was he who wrote and withdrew his de- 
mand.” 

This time Mascarot had strength to con- 
ceal the fact that this information was a 
frightful blow to him. He even laughed 
as he asked some trifling question of Flor- 
estan before they separated. But he was 
in reality absolutely upset. After having 
had every reason to believe that his game 
was won, he saw it not lost, but frightfully 
compromised. 

“ What I ” he said, his hands clenched in 
anger, “ shall the foolish passion of this 
child stop me now, when I am so near the 

f ;oal? By no means. Let him beware, 
f I find him in my road, so much the 
worse for him ! ” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Dr. Hortebise had long since ceased to 
dispute the will of his admirable partner. 
Baptiston ordered, and — he obeyed I And 
this gave him infinitely less trouble. He 
had been bidden not to lose sight of Paul ; 
he therefore obeyed these instructions to 
the letter. He had gone with him to the 
banker’s. Monsieur Martin Regal’s — where 
they had dined, although the banker him- 
self was absent — thence to the club, and 
insisted, finally, on Paul accepting a bed 
for the night. 

Hortebise and his disciple were late in 
rising the following morning, but about 
eleven they hud completed their toilette 
and were ready to do justice to an excellent 
breakfast, when Monsieur Tantaine was 
announced, who appeared, bowing and 
smiling as usual. 

At the sight of this man, Paul felt all his 
blood boil in his veins. He started up fu- 
riously. 

“I have you, sir, at last,” he exclaimed. 
“We have an account to settle together 1 ” 

Good old Tantaine looked as if the skies 
had opened. 

“We! an account?” he asked, in a be- 
wildered sort of way. 

“Yes, sir, yes! Was it not owing to 
your perfidious acts that I was accused of 
theft by Madame Loupias? ” 

“Well?” and the old notary shrugged 
his shoulders. “ I supposed,” he said, in 
the blandest of tones, “ that Monsieur 
Baptiston had explained everything to 
you, and concluded that you wished to 
marry Mademoiselle Flavia. I was told 
that you were a young man of extraordi- 
nary intelligence and penetration ! ” 

The doctor burst into a hearty laugh. 
Paul realized at once the folly of his indig- 
nation at this late hour, and dropped his 
head in due confusion, and turned away. 

“ If I disturb you, doctor,” resumed old 
Tantaine, “ I am very sorry, but I was sent 
with strict orders not to leave without see- 
ing you.” 

“ Is there anything new? ” 


“Yes. First, Mademoiselle de Mussi- 
dan is out of danger. Monsieur de Croise- 
nois can pursue his plans now without any 
fear.” 

The doctor swallowed a gla«s of his ex- 
cellent Bordeaux, smacked his lips, and 
said: 

“ To the happy consummation of the 
marriage of this dear marquis and Mad- 
emoiselle Sabine ! ” 

“Amen!” answered Tantaine. “An- 
other word, if you please. I am told to 
beg Monsieur Paul not to leave Monsieur 
Hortebise, but to send for his eflects and 
install himself here.” 

The do(*tor looked so much annoyed that 
Tantaine hastened to add : 

“ Only temporarily, of course. I am 
commissioned to find an apartment for this 
young gentleman — and directed to fur- 
nish it.” 

Paul made no attempt to conceal his 
satisfaction at this new arrangement. To 
be surrounded by his own goods and chat- 
tels was a tangible assurance of his pros- 
perity. 

“ Very good! ” cried the doctor, gayly. 
And now that you have executed ail your 
commissions, my good Tantaine, you can 
stay and breakfast with an easy con- 
science.” 

But Tantaine shook his head. 

“ Many thanks for the honor ; but I have 
breakfasted, however. Besides, I have 
not time. That business of the Due de 
Champdoce presses us frightfully just 
now, and I must see that Perpignan as soon 
as possible.” 

He here made a little sign that Paul did 
not see, and Hortebise rose and accom- 
panied Tantaine as far as the ante-room. 

“ Do not leave that boy,” said Tantaine, 
in a whisper. “ I will see to him to-morrow. 
In the meantime, prepare him ” 

“ I understand,” interrupted the doctor. 
“Trust him to me;” and as he resumed 
his seat he called out to Tantaine : 

“ My regards to that dear Perpignan !” 

This “ dear Pergignan,” in whom Mas- 
carot was so much interested, and to whom 
Tantaine was now going, was well known 
in Paris — some said too well known. His 
name had been set down in his baptismal 
register as Isadore Crocheteau, but he 
adopted the name of his native towm. 
About 1845, Perpignan, who was then 
really fifty, met with a disaster. Head 
cook in a restaurant in the Palais-Royal 
he had been detected in a flagrant system 
of dishonesty in connection with the trades- 
people who supplied the establishment, 
was arrested, tried, convicted, and sen- 
tenced for three years. But these three 
years of confinement gave him ample time 
to arrange a great plan of action by which 
he thought he could enrich himself with- 
out the smallest risk. A week after he 
was a free man he issued the follo^ving 
prospectus ; 


112 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


I. C. Perpignan. 

'‘^Information obtained and investigations 
pursued^ strictly private, 

‘‘Sir — Is there any one who at some 
one period of his life "has not felt the need 
of some agent of discretion and skill to 
whom he could intrust certain investiga- 
tions, mysterious and delicate in their 
way? Creditors who have debtors who 
hide away, fathers who need to know the 
acts of their prodigal sons, families desir- 
ous of knowing the habits of any one of 
their members ; all those, in fact, who de- 
sire to exercise moral supervision and just- 
ifiable investigation may address them- 
selves with entire confidence to Monsieur 
Perpignan, whose ability is universally 
conceded, and whose honor is above sus- 
picion.” 

By this impudent circular Perpignan 
announced the creation of one of those 
shameful establishments of a private police 
force which can only be employed by 
knaves and fools, or for base purposes. 

Perpignan wished a specialty — he had 
one. He was the Pyovidence of jealous 
husbands ! 

The idea of the former cook succeeded 
so wonderfully, that after a year he em- 
ployed eight of those odious spies, who, in 
the" Hue de Jerusalem, are called fileurs. 
It is true that he abused his success, and 
sold his merchandise two or three times 
over. Eegularly, when he was charged 
to watch some suspected wife, he would 
go to see her and say ; 

“1 am promised so much if I discover 
and if I tell the truth. Now, what will 
you offer me if I agree to give only such 
information as you choose ? ” 

It was in this pleasing territory that 
Perj'ignan's people had knocked against 
Mascarot’s. There was never any real 
conflict, for each was too much afraid of 
the other, and by a tacit agreement they 
avoided working the same tracts on that 
great For st of Bondy, known as Paris. 

But, while the ex-cook — badly seiwed 
by his light-paid spies — had never suc- 
ceeded in penetrating any of Mascarot's 
mysteries, he, on the contrary, admirably 
seconded by his volunteers, was by no 
means ignorant of Perpignan's affairs. 

Mascarot, for example, had easily ascer- 
tained that the revenues from the Private 
Inquiry Office could not cover Perpignan’s 
expenses, for his menage was appallingly 
dear, and he hired a carriage by the month. 
He pretended too, to artistic tastes. These 
tastes in him showed themselves by won- 
derful waistcoats and much glittering jew- 
elry. He frankly admits his love of the 
table — cannot dine without delicate wines 
— and never turns a cold shoulder upon 
the card tables. He is alwa 3 ’S to be seen 
at the races, and in the Bois — goes to the 
best restaurants, and is invariably present 
at the first representations. 


“Where does the money come from?” 
wondered Mascarot, and immediately de- 
termined not to rest until he knew. And 
he succeeded in his research. 

“ Yes,” said Tantaine, to himself, “ and 
it is lucky we have this hold o:i Perpignan, 
for he is a most dangerous rascal — utterly 
without truth or honor. It is necessary, 
therefore, to hold before his eyes the 
cheerful prospect of a prolonged residence 
at Cayenne.” At this stage of his reflec- 
tions Tantaine had reached the door of the 
ex-cook, and rang. 

A stout woman opened it. 

“Monsieur Perpignan is out,” she said, 

“ And when will he return? ” 

“ Not before night, I think.” 

“Then will you kindly tell me where I 
may hope to find him, as it is of import- 
ance to him, as well as to me, to see him 
as soon as possible? ” 

“ He did not tell me where he was go- 
ing.” 

“Is he not at the factory?” said Tan- 
taine, with an air of excessive simplicity. 

The stout woman was so little prepared 
for this question that she started back. 

“ How do you know? ” she stammered. 

“ I do know, and that is enough, so you 
may as well tell me the truth at once. Is 
he there? ” 

“Yes — I think so.” 

“ Thanks ; I will find him then.” 

And less polite than usual, Tantaine 
hastily turned away, forgetting to bow to 
the woman. 

“ Too bad ! ” he murmured, “ too bad I 
An endless distance ! But if I catch him 
there, among his honest and honorable 
employments, the dear old soul may be 
less guarded, and will possibly allow his 
tongue greater freedom than in his office.” 

Scorning to take a fiacre the old man 
“ buckled-to,” as he expressed it. His 
long thin legs absolutely flew over the 
ground. He followed the Rue de Toumon, 
crossed the Luxembourg diagonally, and 
entered the Rae Gay Sassac. Keeping up 
the same rate of speed he reached the Rue 
Moufietard, and then turned into one of 
those lanes which twist about between the 
Gobelin Works and the Hospital de I’Our- 
cine. 

I'his is an unknown foreign land to Par- 
isians, and one w^ould suppose himself to 
be at least a hundred leagues from the 
Boulevard Montmartre as he looks at the 
streets, or rather roads, which are inacces- 
sible to carriages, so piled up are they 
with houses and walls all tumbling down 
in ruins. From one especial point of view 
the spectacle is intensely depressing. 

Below is a valley through which runs, or 
stagnates, rather, the black and muddy 
waters of the Bierre. Forges and tanner- 
ies are to be seen in every direction. Here 
and there are a clump of melancholy-look- 
ing trees, and occasionally a tall isolated 
house. 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


113 


On the left are the buildings in the pop- 
ulous and busy Rue Mouffetard. On the 
right, the eye rests on the outer Boulevard. 
A line of poplars, marking the course of 
the river, stands against the horizon, and 
tunaing, one overlooks Paris. Involuntar- 
ily Tantaine stood still and looked. A 
strange thought brought a bitter smile to 
his lips. He shrugged his shoulders and 
hurried on. He seemed to be perfectly at 
home in the quarter, and when, after 
threading the intricate streets he reached 
the Champ des Alonettes, he breathed a 
sigh of satisfaction. 

He stood before a large house of three 
stories, which was entered through a court- 
yard, enclosed by a decayed wooden fence. 
The house had a sinister aspect, and the 
old man deliberated for a moment, appar- 
ently, before he crossed the court-yard — 
whei e a tethered goat was calmly brows- 
ing — and entered the house, the interior 
of which corresponded with the outside. 

Two rooms composed the rez-de-chaussee^ 
one of which was piled with straw, and on 
the straw was thrown some ragged quilts. 
The other room was apparently a kittdien, 
where there was a long table, made by 
boards supported on trestles. Before the 
chimnej’’ stood an untidy, red-faced woman 
wearing a Madras handkerchief on her 
head and holding in her hand a long 
wooden spoon with which she occasionally 
stirred the contents of an immense caldron, 
in which was simmering some horrible mix- 
ture. On a low bed in the corner, a little 
boy of about ten lay and shivered. His 
face, as white as wax, lay against the rag- 
ged, soiled pillow — his hands were thin and 
transparent, and his great black eyes glit- 
tered with fever. 

Occasionally he would utter a groan of 
pain, and then the old woman would storm 
and threaten him finally with the wooden 
spoon. 

But I am in such pain,” sighed the 
boy, in an Italian accent. “I am really 
very ill ” 

Well, then, you had much better liave 
done as you were bid. Had you brought 
anything home at night you would not 
have been beaten, and if you had not been 
beaten you would not be thei e ! ” 

‘'Oh me — I am sick — 1 am cold — I 
want to go away — I want to see 
mamma ! ” 

Old Tantaine had seen much misery in 
his life, and he was not easily moved, but 
even he was touched by this scene. He 
coughed to announce his presence. The 
old woman turned round with a snarl like 
that of a hungry dog disturbed over a bone. 

“ What do 5 mu want?” she growled. 

“ Your master.” 

He has not come yet.” 

“ Will he be here! ” 

‘‘Perhaps. It is his day; but he is not 
by any means regular. You can see 
Poluche, though.” 


Poluche ! Who is he? ” 

The old woman gave a contemptuous 
glance. It seemed to her most extraordi- 
nary that such ignorance could exist. 

“ He is the professor,” she said. 

“ And where is he? ” 

“He? Oh! he is in the conservatory.” 

And she returned to her caldron, mutter- 
ing: “ I should think you had asked just 
about questions enough. Now clear out.” 

This abrupt dismissal did not seem to 
offend Tantaine, who now turned his at- 
tention* to the staircase, which was so 
dilapidated and shaky that an acrobat 
would have hesitated to attempt it. 

But Father Tantaine was brave. He 
therefore ascended in the most cautious 
manner, keei)ing as closely as possible to 
the wall. The higher he went the more 
distinct became the strange noises that he 
had heard in the court-yard. It was a 
sound like the sharpening of innumerable 
knives accompanied by the mewing of cats. 
Suddenly there was a dead silence. Th'm 
came a loud oath and cries of pain. This 
charivari did not seem to astonish Tantaine 
who, on reaching the floor above, found 
himself face to face with a door hanging 
loosely by one hinge. 

He opened this door, and found that it 
led to what the woman in the kitchen 
called the conservatory. 

It was an immense room ; in fact, it was 
all the rooms on that floor thrown into 
one. The division had been torn down by 
unskilled hands. In the five Windows 
there were but three panes of glass intact ; 
the others were cracked and broken, and 
some stnfted with rags, and all dirty and 
begrimed. The walls, originally white 
jdaster, were covered with obscure inscrip- 
tions and rough drawings. 

To the smell of the tanneries in the 
vicinity was added an indescribably dis- 
gusting odor, which was absolutely nau- 
seating. 

As to furniture, there was none -- a 
broken chair, across which lay a stout 
whip with leather thongs. Tantaine, since 
he came to Paris, of which he knew all the 
depravity, had seen many strange sights, 
but even he was thunderstruck at what 
now met his eyes. 

Around the room and against the wall 
were ranged about twenty children, from 
seven to ten years of age, ragged and dirty. 
The rags which coven d them did not fit 
them in any degree ; they shivered in dress- 
coats whose tails dragged on the floor, and 
in pantaloons whose v/aistbands cam ^ to 
their throats. Of course they wore no 
shirts. Some of them had violins, and 
others a harp as tall as themselves. On 
the violins Tantaine noticed regular chalk- 
lines. 

In the centre of the room stood a man of 
about thirty — straight, slender, and erect 
as a candle; excessively ugly, with flat 
features, and greasy black liair falling on 


114 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


his shoulders. His coat had originally 
been olive green, and hung on his should- 
ers as if upon two nails — or, rather, like 
a sail when there is no wind. He, as vrell 
as the children, had a violin, and was evi- 
dently the Professor Poluche, who was 
giving his IC'^son. 

“Attention!” he exclaimed. “ iN'ow 
each in turn. You, Ascanio, play again 
the refrain of the Chateau de Marguerite V 
and he drew his bow across his own instru- 
ment, while the little Piedmontese strug- 
gled desperately with his, and in a squeak- 
ing voice, with the purest nasal twang, he 
sang: 

“ Ah, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! qu’il est beau, 

Le chateau de ” 

“ Rascal ! ” interrupted Poluche. “ Have 
I not told you one hundred times that at 
the word ‘ chateau’ you are to place your 
left hand on the fourth notch and draw your 
bow. Begin again.” 

The child began. 

Ah, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! qu’il est ” 

“ Stop ! ” shouted the professor, in a 
terrible voice. “ Stop ! I believe you do 
that purposely. Now begin again," and if 
you do not repeat that entire refrain cor- 
rectly, look out, that is all. Go on.” 

Ah, mon Dieu ” 

Alas ! Ascanio forgot his instructions. 

The professor laid down his violin and 
quietly took up the whip on ihe chair, 
and coldly and calmly, without the small- 
est appearance of anger, he gave five or 
six smart cuts across the legs of the child, 
who at once set up a lamentable roar. 

“ That will teach you,” said Poluche, 
“ to pay more attention to what I say. 
When you have got through your howling 

ou can begin again, and if you don't do 

etter not a mouthful of soup do you get 
to-night. This is a fair warning. Now, 
instead of braying like an ass, open your 
eyes and ears and look at your neighbors. 
Now, Gusippe, it is your turn.” 

Although younger by two or three years 
than Ascanio, Gusippe was much the su- 
perior on the violin. He repeated the en- 
tire refrain without an error. 

“Good!” said Poluche; “and now if 
you improve in the next two or three days 
as you have done in the last week, you 
can soon go out. You would like to go 
out, I suppose?” 

“Oh! yes, indeed, sir,” answered the 
child, with great delight. “ I should like 
to bring in a few sous, too.” 

But the conscientious professor did not 
propose to waste his valuable time in vain 
and foolish converse. He turned to anoth- 
er of his pupils. 

“Fabio,” he cried, “ look out for your 
time.” 

Fabio, a tiny creature, not more than 
seven, with black eyes as bright and spark- 
ling as those of a mouse, hastened to obey. 

He was the first to see Tantaine standing 


on the threshold, and he pointed him out 
to the professor. 

“ Oh I master,” he exclaimed, “ a man ! ” 

Poluche turned quickly, and found him- 
self face to face with Tanttiine, who had 
come swiftly forward, with his hat in his 
hand. 

A spectre coming up through the fioor 
could not have affected the nerves of the 
professor more, he having especial reasons 
for being afraid of strangers. 

“What do you want?” he asked, in a 
startled voice. “ Who are you? ” 

This man's evident alarm delighted the 
genial Tantaine, for he saw in it a proof of 
the success of his hazardous step, and 
showed him thq tone it would be advisable 
for him to take with Perpignan when he 
appeared on the field. It pleased him, 
therefore, to prolong the perplexity of the 
situation, and for a good minute he con- 
templated with a bland smile the agonized 
professor, who became momentarily more 
and more disturbed. Finally, however, 
he relented. 

“Reassure yourself, sir,” he said; “I 
am an intimate friend of the good man 
who employs you, and 1 took the liberty 
of coming here, as I have to discuss some 
very important business affairs with 
him.” 

Poluche breathed freely once more. 

“ That being the case, sir,” he said, of- 
ering the visitor the one chair in the room, 
“take a seat; the master will soon be 
here.” 

But Father Tantaine refused, politely 
protesting that he was afraid of intruding, 
that he did not care to sit, and that he 
would withdraw if the lessons were not 
at once resumed. 

“It is nearly over,” replied the pro- 
fessor. “ It is time now for Butor to give 
these scamps their porridge.” 

And turning to his pupils, who had not 
dared to move a limb, he said : 

“ Enough for to-day. Be off with you,” 

The children did not wait one second. 
They laid down their instruments, and 
tumbled over each other in their eagerness 
to leave the room. 

Perhaps they hoped that their master, 
occupied by his unwonted visitor, would 
forget certain threats he had made. 

Vain hope! The severe, but just Po- 
luche was endowed with an extraordinary 
memory. 

He solemnly went to the head of the 
stairs, and leaning over the railing, he 
called in a voice that rang all through the 
house. 

“ Hallo ! Mother Butor.” 

The wretch in the kitchen shouted back. 

“ What is it?” she cried. 

“You will give no porridge to Morel- 
and Ravouellat will have only half his 
allowance.’* 

These important orders given, he reai)- 
peared with that satisfied air which is al- 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


115 


ways imparted to the countenance by the 
consciousness of a duty well performed. 

“Our Piedmontese and Calabrians get 
on very well,” he began in an explanatory 
voice to Tantaine, “but these Italians 
from Batignolles and Montrouge, which 
the master brings in here sometimes, are 
truly terrible. The little rascals are im- 
pertinent and lazy, and ^ so corrupt that 
they call a blush to my clieek. They have 
no music in their souls, and it is impossi- 
ble to put it there.” 

Tantaine was deeply interested, for the 
whole scene was new to him. 

“ Yours is a diflacult task,” he said. “ To 
teach music to children so young must be 
very trying?” 

The professor raised his eyes to Heaven 
in despair. 

“ Would to God,” he cried, “ that I could 
teach them the divine science, its first prin- 
ciples, and as they are — all dear to my 
soul. But no ; the master does not wish 
it, in fact he would dismiss me if he caught 
me doing anything of the kind.” 

“ But 1 do not understand.” 

“ Let me explain then. You have heard, 
I presume, of old women who sell birds, 
and who for twenty centimes will train a 
singing -bird for you with a reed-organ, 
and whistles, and so on.” 

No, Tantaine knew nothing of this trade, 
and he confessed his ignorance in all hu- 
mility. 

“ Ah, well,” resumed the professor with 
a bitter smile, “I teach boys instead of 
birds, that is all. It is a sad matter, sir, 
for a man of any imagination. There are 
days when I envy those men who educate 
paroquets. But patience ! patience ! ” 

The gentle Tantaine smiled and pointed 
to the whip. 

“ And this?” he asked. 

Poluche shrugged his shoulders. 

“ I should like, sir,” he said, “ to see you 
in my place for twenty-four hours. The 
master picks up a boy, and he brings him 
here. Well, what then? The child is in 
despair. I am expected in two, or at the 
most, three weeks to teach him to do some- 
thing. He never saw a violin, he has not 
the smallest knowledge of its parts. That 
is no matter. He must be made to put his 
fingers where they ought to go in playing 
the simplest air. Naturally, the child re- 
bels against my instructions, and I as nat- 
urally insist on obedience. Can you drive 
a nail into an oak board without a ham- 
mer? No, you say. Very well, my whip 
is my hammer, and with it I drive the airs 
into my pupil's memory. 

“But do not imagine for a moment that 
these imps are afraid of my corrections. 
By no means. They thrive on blows as 
other children thrive on caresses. They 
howl if they are touched, but not a real 
tear ever falls from their eyes. I find other 
modes of punishment vastly more effectual 
than the whip. I manage them through 


their stomachs. I suppress a quarter, a 
third, or a half of their porridge, and 
sometimes, but not often, the whole. It is 
astonishing how fasting sharpens their 
faculties. If they are especially obsti- 
nate, I keep them at work very late at 
night.” 

Tantaine, during this long explanation, 
had felt a cold chill creep down his back. 
His prejudices were not strong, but he felt 
that this S 5 ^stera of education was not al- 
together satisfactory. 

You know now,” resumed the profes- 
sor, “ why it is that certain airs are sung 
for a time throughout the length and 
breadth of Paris. I have forty pupils, 
who at eight o’clock each morning start 
out, and do not return until midnight. As 
soon as I have drilled them on some mor- 
ce«w, it becomes popular. For three 
months they have been at the ‘ C'hateau de 
Marguerite,’ and you hear it now wherever 
you go.” 

Tantaine now' understood the strange 
persistence with which certain airs pursue 
the Parisian wherever he goes. 

“ Now,” continued Poluche, drawing 
his bow over his instrument, “I could give 
Fi-ancois thorough instruction, but the 
master says no. He came near dismissing 
me because I played them an air from an 
opera of my own one day.” 

Father Tantaine, although he had been 
waiting a long time for Perpignan, was 
not yet weary. 

“ From your own opera? ” he asked. 

“Yes,” answered Poluche, in a very 
different tone from that in which he had 
before spoken. “ There is not a theatre 
that has not in its archives an opera of 
mine. One of my friends, who went crazy 
from absinthe, wrote lovely librettos for 
me. No, do not laugh. 1 have received 
a purse at the Conservatoire. I had at 
that time some illusions ; 1 drank water 
and 1 worked all night. But the day came 
when I grew weary of waiiing for fame, 
and then I tried to give lessons. Alas I I 
was so ugly and disagreeable that they 
would not have me in any of the boarding 
schools — I was literally dying of hunger 
when I met the master. He tempted me, 
and I yielded. I have five francs per day 
regularly, and two sous for each pupil. It 
is a disgraceful trade ; I loathe it and my- 
self — jb^ut I am not starving.” 

He stopped, listened' for a moment, and 
then said uneasily : 

“Here comes the master I I know his 
step. If you wish to see him you must 
go down. He never comes up, for he’s 
afraid of the stairs.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

To see this man whom Poluche called 
the master, and who gloried in the name of 
Perpignan, was to judge him at once. 
Perpignan was a short, apoplectic look- 


116 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


ing person, very short, very red, with an 
impudent mouth and a cynical eye. 

He was always too much dressed. One 
was tempted to believe that he had just 
robbed a jeweler’s shop, and adorned him- 
self with* his spoils. 

In all his appalling vulgarity the former 
cook appeared before Tantaine as the lat- 
ter carefully descended the rickety stairs. 

If Poluche had been disturbed on seeing 
the stranger, his master was not less so, 
but for very different reasons. He knew 
Tantaine to be the right hand man of the 
redoubtable Mascarot. 

‘‘Thunder!” he said to himself. “If 
these people have taken the trouble to 
come here for me, it must be for some very 
powerful reasons. I must be very care- 
ful.” 

And feigning a smile, he extended his 
hand to Tantaine. 

“ Delighted to see you I ” he said. “ How 
can I serve you? For Insincerely trust 
that it was to ask some service that you 
have come.” 

“The merest trifle,” smiled back Tan- 
taine. 

“So much the worse, then; I am really 
very fond of Monsieur Mascarot — veiw 
fond ! ” 

This amicable colloquy had taken place 
in the corridor of the house, amid the 
shouts and laughs of the children, who 
were devouring the contents of Mother 
Butor’s caldron. But through this child- 
ish merriment came an undertone of 
piteous lamentation. 

“Who is that?” shouted Perpignan, in 
a voice which would have shaken all the 
glasses in the window if there had been 
any. “ Who is it dares to be unhappy 
here?” 

As no reply came from the children 
Poluche spoke. 

“ They are two of the Parisians,” he 
said, “ whom I have put on short allow- 
ance. They shall not have a mouthful 
until they have learned ” 

He stopped short, struck dumb by a 
threatening glance from the master. 

“On short allowance!” repeated Per- 
pignan — “do you dare, under my very 
roof, without my knowledge, to deprive 
these i^oor children of an ounce of their 
food. It is infamous! simply infamous, 
Monsieur Poluche ! What on earth do you 
mean by such audacity? ” 

“ But, master,” stammered the professor, 
“ you have told me a thousand times ” 

“What — that you are a fool! Pre- 
cisely, and you would never be anything 
else. Hold your tongue, and go and tell 
Butor to give the porridge to those 
cherubs.” 

Perpignan was in a state of absolute 
rage, but repressing all manifestations, he 
took Tantaine’s arm and drew him to the 
other end of the corridor. 

“You came, I presume, to speak to me 


on business. Yes, to be sure. Well then, 
come in here, it is my office.” 

The place was not attractive. It was a 
dirty little room, dingy and dilapitated 
like the rest of the house. Three chairs, 
a table of white wood, and some shelves, 
on which were some ledgers, composed 
the furniture. The two men took their 
seats and looked at each other without 
speaking, each seeking to penetrate the 
secret thoughts of the other. 

Two adversaries, e^ich with his sword in 
hand, awaiting the signal of their seconds, 
were never mure watchful. 

But in this preliminary engagement, the 
advantages were all on the side of Tan- 
taine, who was entrenched behind his 
green goggles. Therefore, it was that 
Perpignan was the first to speak. 

“ How did it happen,” he said, “ that 
you learned of my little establishment?” 

“ Oh ! by the merest accident,” answered 
Tantaine, carelessly. “A person who 
goes about as much as I do naturally hears 
of most things. For example: we know 
very well that you have taken every pre- 
caution to avoid being compromised.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Just what Isay. You are, of course, 
the master in reality, but apparently you 
are nothing. To the outside world a man 
named Butor, the husband of your cook, 
is the manager, and the lease of the house 
is in his name. Now, if anything should 
happen, 5^ou would disappear, and the po- 
lice would only be able to lay their hands 
on your man of straw — Butor.” Tan- 
taine waited a moment, and then added, 
slowly, “ Such tactics usually succeed, un- 
less it so happens that a man has an enemy 
skilful enough to render all his precautions 
useless, by managing to obtain absolute 
proofs of complicity.” 

The former cook was too quick witted 
not to understand this threat. 

“These people know something,” he 
thought; “ but what. I must find out.” 

And then he added, aloud : “ The best 
way after all, is to have a clear conscience ; 
as to my case, having nothing to conceal, 
I have nothing to fear. You have seen 
my establishment — what do you think 
about it?” 

“It seems to me well started.” 

“ Indeed it is. You will think with me 
that a good manufactory at Ronbaux 
would have been a better investment. But 
that was beyond me. I did the best I 
could.” 

Tantaine nodded. 

“ It is not a bad trade,” he said. 

“ So I think. And then I am not the 
only one who has tried it. In the Rue 
Sainte Marguerite you will find more than 
one similar establishment. But I never 
liked the Faubourg Saint Antoine. Here 
my cherubs have better air. 

“Certainly; and besides,” added Tan- 
taine, With an innocent air, “ if they 


THE SLAVES OF FAEIS, 


117 


should happen to make too much noise 
when they are punished, there are no 
neighbors to hear.” 

Perpignan thought it best to take no 
notice of this observation. 

‘‘The journals,” he continued, “have 
seen fit to make an everlasting row about 
us. But really, they had best confine 
themselves to politics. Who on earth are 
we injuring? No one in the world. The 
truth is that they exaggerate our profits, 
which do not amount to much.” 

“ Nonsense ! you make your living.” 

“Of course I am not out of pocket; but 
I assure yon that there is really very little 
to be made. For example, six of my 
cherubs are sick in hospital, and then there 
is another in that bed in the kitchen. 
These are, of course, a dead loss to me.” 

“You are, indeed, to be pitied!” said 
Tantaine, gravely. 

The old man's coolness was now begin- 
ning to annoy Perpignan excessively. 

“Zounds!” he cried, “if you and Mas- 
carot think the speculation so good a one, 
why don’t you try it for yourselves? You 
seem to think you could find any amount 
of children; but you are mistaken, my 
dear sir, much mistaken. You must go to 
Italy, get them together, and th^m they 
must be smuggled across the frontier as if 
they were contraband goods. This is sim- 
ply ruinous!” 

But Tantaine was not disturbed by this 
river of words, nor was he moved by them 
to relinquish any plan he had formed. 

Perpignan, having stopped to breathe, 
he thought it wise to abridge an explana- 
tion he was beginning to find tedious. 

“ Upon my word,” he said, “ you man- 
age matters on a grand scale. What sum 
do you exact from each every night? ” 

This question was so indiscreet, that 
Perpignan hesitated. 

“ That depends,” he said. 

“Well ! you can tell what they aver- 
age?” 

“ Call it three francs, then.” 

Tantnine’s face was so genial, that it was 
impossible to suspect him of any duplicity 
when he said, in reply : 

“ Let us call it three francs, and let us 
say that you have forty cherubs; they 
bring you one hundred and twenty francs 
per day.” 

The gentle obstinacy of the old man sur- 
prised Perpignan. 

“ That is absurd ! ” he exclaimed. “ Do 
you think each of my boys brings in that 
sum?” 

“ It would be absurd if you had not 
some means of compelling them to bring 

The ex-cook started. 

“ I really do not understand you,” he 
said, in a voice that was not without a 
tinge of anxiety. ‘* What do you mean? ” 

“Ah! no oftence of course,” answered 
Tantaine, courteously. “Only I should 


be telling a frightful falsehood, were I to 
tell you that public opinion is in your 
favor. Between ourselves, the Gazette Des 
Trihuneaxix is doing you great harm. It 
has brought to the knowledge of the pub- 
lic some of the practices of your colleagues 
adopted by them for the encouragement of 
new boys to their honest labors. Did you 
hear about that master who fastens his 
boys sometimes on an iron bed and leaves 
them there a day, two days, three days, 
sometimes without food. Did you hear 
his sentence? ” 

Perpignan, who was by this time wretch- 
edly ill at ease, now rose hastily. 

“Do I know it?” he cried. “What do 
I care about these stories. Never once 
have I committed a single act of cruelty.” 

Tantaine settled his spectacles a little. 

“ A man may have the kindest heart in 
the world, and yet he may be the victim 
of circumstances.” 

The decisive moment was evidently near- 
ing. Perpignan felt it instinctively. 

“ I do not understand you,” he said once 
more. 

“ Well, then, let me give you an exam- 
ple. Suppose you should have reason to 
complain to-night of some one of your 
cherubs. What would you do with him? 
Shut him into the cellar, perhaps. Where 
would be the harm? Then you would go 
quietly to bed and sleep, with a quiet con- 
science, like a log. But in the night an 
equinoctial storm comes up. A stone 
stops the gutter in your street through 
which always fiows a great body of water, 
and this water now comes into your cellar. 
In the morning, when you go to let out 
your cherub, you find him stiff and dead. 
He has been drowned.” 

The red face of the ex-cook had become 
absolutely livid. 

“And what then?” he asked. 

“Ah! here it is that the annoyance 
comes in. For naturally it would be dif- 
ficult to decide on what course to pursue. 
To send for the police would be the most 
simple, but that would awaken too much 
attention. And, after all, it would be 
easier to dispose of the body. No one 
knows that the child is there. A hole is 
dug, and the body placed in it.” 

Perpignan had gone to the door, and was 
leaning against it. 

“You know too much. Monsieur Tan- 
taine,” he said, “ a great deal too much! ” 

There was no mistake about the tone of 
the master, his attitude alone, before the 
door, was more significant than any expla- 
nations. But Tantaine did not seem to re- 
mark these hostile demonstrations* Quite 
the contrary. He smiled benignly, as 
pleased with self, apparently, as a child is 
after some frightful piece of mischief, of 
the extent of which he is absolutely igno- 
rant, and the consequences of which he 
cannot calculate. 

“It is nothing, in reality,” he said. 


118 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


‘‘Only five years imprisonment — of course, 
evidence of previous good conduct and 
reputation would be admitted. — but if cer- 
tain antecedents should be raked up — for 
example, a journey to Nancy ” 

This was too much, and Perpignan 
exploded. 

“ Explain yourself! ” he cried. “ What 
do you want me to do?” 

“A little service, as I said before.” 

“Indeed! and is it for * a little service’ 
that you intimidate and threaten me in this 
way, or do you propose to blackmail 
me?” 

“ My dear sir ” 

“You forget one thing, and that is, that 
I am not easily intimidated ” 

“ Permit me to make one observation 
here. Was it not you who first spoke of 
your — well, we will call it business, if you 
say so ! I did not mention it to you.” 

“ Then it was merely by wa}’- of making 
yourself agreeable that you have been re- 
lating to me all these absurd tales?” 

Tantaine shrugged his shoulders lightly. 

“ Well, then,” resumed Perpignan, try- 
ing to conirol his voice, “ shall 1 tell you, 
in my turn, what I think? ” 

“ By all means, if it will not trouble you 
too much.” 

“ I will tell you, then, that you have 
come here on an errand that no man should 
undertake alone. To come and say to a 
man, face to face, the things that you have 
said, you should have been younger and of 
a different build. It was not a prudent 
thing to do, to venture into a house like 
this ” 

“But — heavens and earth! what could 
happen to me?” 

Perpignan did not answer. His face 
was convulsed, his eyes were bloodshot, 
and his lips were white. He was in one 
of these terrible fits of rage when a man 
neither knows nor cares what h ' does. 

He had slipped his hand into his pocket ; 
but Tantaine. indifferent as he seemed, had 
not lost a single movement, and at the 
next, when Perpignan’s hand was drawn 
from his pocket, Tantaine made one quick 
dash at him. The ex-cook was robust, and 
his strength was uncommon, but he stag- 
gered under the attack. Tantaine’s hands 
were twisted in his cravat and he was chok- 
ing. 

The struggle was of brief duration. 
With a vigor that in a man of his age and 
appearance was wonderful, Tantaine threw 
his adversary on the fioor and put his foot 
on his chest. No one would have recog- 
nized Tantaine at this moment, he seemed 
to have grown a foot in height and was 
younger by twentj'’ years. His face, gen- 
erally so mild and benign, now expressed 
the most entire contempt and cold disgust. 

“ You wished to stab me, did you? ” he 
said to Perpignan. “ You wished to kill 
an inoffensive old man who never harmed 
you in any way. Do you think me so sim- 


ple as to venture into your lair without 
any precautions?” 

He half drew out a revolver as he spoke, 
“Now throw your knife down!” he 
added sternly. 

Tantaine was right. It was a sharp 
pointed knife that Perpignan had tried to 
open in his pocket, but he was now so de- 
moralized that he tossed his knife into the 
corner obediently. 

“ All right ! ” said Tantaine, condescend- 
ingly. “ I am glad to see that you are be- 
coming reasonable. Can it be possible 

that a sensible man like yourself . To 

be sure, you had not refiected. I came 
alone, to "be sure, but plenty of people 
knew I had come. If I had not returned 
to-ni^ht, do you suppose that my master, 
Monsieur Mascarot, would have been con- 
tent? How soon do you think he and the 
whole police force of Paris would have 
been here? You will be guilty of the bas- 
est ingratitude, my friend, if you do not 
do everything I ask of you for the rest of 
your life.” 

The ex-cook was mortified and humili- 
ated. He had been beaten and he had been 
laughed at; never had either of these 
things happened to him before. 

“The weakest must always obey the 
stronger,” he said, sulkily. 

“Exactly. But you should have real- 
ized that before.” 

“ I was excited and angry.” 

“Well! Now get up, take that chair, 
and let us talk reasonably.” 

Perpignan meekly obeyed. 

“ Now,” said Tantaine, “ listen ! I have 
come to make a proposition to you — a 
proposition that is absolutely magnificent.” 

‘ * The deuce you have ? Then why ” 

said Perpignan. 

Tantaine stopped him with an imperious 
gesture. 

“ Because,” he said, coldly, “ I wished 
to prove to you, to j^our own satisfaction, 
that you belong to Mascarot more entirely 
than your poor Italians belong to you. 
They are your slaves ; you are his. You 
are at his mercy, my man; he holds you 
in his hand, and can crush you like an egg 
whenever he pleases. He knows all about 
you, and has every possible proof.” 

The ex-cook muttered : 

“ Your Mascarot is the devil himself, I 
believe ; nobody can resist him ! ” 

“Ah! then, as this is your opinion, we 
can talk sensibly, at last.” 

Poor Perpignan straightened his neck- 
tie and seated liimself on one side of the 
white table. 

“ Abuse me,” he said, as much as you 
please; insult me; I can have nothing to 
say,” and the man tried to laugh, as it 
was all that was left for him to do. 

But Tantaine was not the man to do that. 
His plan of action had been arranged be- 
fore he came to this house, and was now 
only slightly altered. 


THE SLAVES OF PAMIS. 


119 


“ Let us begin with the beginning. For 
several days you have had a certain Caro- 
line Schemel followed ” 

“I?'’ 

“Yes, my innocent son — you! You 
employed as a spy upon me the eldest of 
your cherubs — a fellow of sixteen, who 
plays on the harp, and answers to the name 
of Ambrosio, which is not his own.” 

“ That does not matter.” 

“ True. But he is not to be trusted, let 
me tell you. And why? you ask. First, 
then, he accepts too willingly an offer of a 
glass of wine ; the second invariably up- 
sets him, moreover. As we were afraid, 
the other evening, that his absence would 
make you uneasy, we brought him home 
in a fiacre, and left him on the corner.” 

The ex-cook uttered an exclamation. 

“ It is you, then,” he cried, “ who are 
watching this Caroline? ” 

“ Have you waked up to that conclu- 
sion?” 

‘‘ I knew very well that I was not the 
only one wlio was tracking her. But what 
could I do about it? ” 

“ You can tell me, now, at all events, 
why you are watching Caroline Sche- 
mel?” 

“Why? Because — confound it all! 
You know the words on my circular, 

‘ celerity and discretion.’ You are after a 
secret which is not my own, and which 
has been entrusted to my honor.” 

Tantaine lifted his eyebrows. 

“ Why do you talk of discretion when 
you follow Caroline entirely on your own 
account, hoping to arrive, through her, to 
a mystery of which only a very small por- 
tion has been confided to you.” 

Abashed as was the ex-cook he ventured 
to ask, knowingly : 

“ Are you sure of your statement? ” 

“ So sure that I can tell you, that this 
client was brought to you by a lawyer. 
Monsieur Catenae.” 

Ferpignan was certainly not himself, his 
face now expressed not surprise but 
terror. 

“ What sort of a man is this Mascarot? 
Is there anything he does not know? ” 

^ At last Tantaine had produced the pre- 
cise effect he desired, for he rubbed his 
glasses joyously. 

“No,” he answered. “ My master does 
not know everything, and the proof of this 
is, that I have come to ask you to tell me 
what took place between Catenae’s client 
and yourself, and this is the service we ex- 
pect from you.” 

“And on which you may rely. Mas- 
carot knows what he is about ; and I bet 
on him. This is the whole story : 

“ About three weeks ago, one morning, 
I had just got rid of a dozen clients at my 
place in the Hue du Four, when my woman 
brought me a card. I read on it ; ‘ Catenae, 
Counsellor at Law.’ I said : ‘ Don’t know 
him, but let him in all the same.’ He 


came, and after a little conversation he 
asked if I thought I could find a person of 
of whom he had entirely lost track. I said 
of course that I could. Thereupon he 
asked me to be at home the next morning 
at ten, when a person would call upon me 
in regard to the matter. The next day, at 
the hour appointed, a respectable-looking 
man made his appearance. He was about 
sixty — in a worn coat and shabby hat. I 
took a squint at his linen — bless my soul! 
it was as white as snow, and as fine as 
satin. His shoes were the work of an ar- 
tist — and his hands were white, with pol- 
ished nails. 

“‘Ah! ha!’ I said to myself. ‘You 
thought to catch me, did you, with this 
disguise of an innocent old man? But I 
am too smart for you, by far.’ 

“ I politely gave him my chair, and he 
at once proceeded to disclose his business. 

“ ‘ Sir,’ he said, ‘ I have not had a very 
happy life, and at one time I was so en- 
tirely without resources that I was obliged 
to carry to the Enfants Trouves a child 
who was very dear to me — my own by a 
mistress whom I adored, and who is dead. 
That was twenty-four years ago. Now I 
am old and alone. I have a small income 
and would give half of my fortune to find 
this child again. Now is this possible?” 

Although he had been a cook, and was 
now the head of that fiock of Italian boys, 
Perpignan was an eloquent speaker. He 
was highly flattered by the close attention 
with which Tantaine followed his words, 
and was by no means sorry to prove to him 
that in some respects he was quite equal to 
the redoubtable Mascarot. He, therefore, 
chose his words and enunciated his sylla- 
bles with extreme care. 

“You understand, my dear sir,” he re- 
sumed, after a pause, “that this story 
interested me extremely. 

“ I said to myself, that all I should prob- 
ably have to do would be to go to the hos- 
pital where the child had been left, and 
that the man must be poor indeed if the 
half of his fortune would not be an ample 
reward for this trifling expenditure of time 
and money. So I said that I would under- 
take it; but that he must give me some 
little time. But I made a mistake, my man 
was too. sharp for me, and he stopped me. 

“ ‘ Allow me to finish,” he said : ‘ and 
when I have explained all the circumstan- 
ces, you will probably realize that the task 
is not so simple a one as you think.’ 

I of course told him then, that with 
the extraordinary resources I had at com- 
mand no one could escape me; that my 
emissaries were all over Europe, and that 
I had but to extend my hand to grasp the 
bird wanted, however securely it was hid- 
den — and I was really saying no more 
than the truth — and I, without boasting 

‘‘Keep to your story,” said Tantaine 
impatiently. ‘- 1 know all that I ” 


120 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


‘‘ Very well ; I will leave you to imagine 
all I said to my client. He’ listened co me 
with considerable satisfaction, I assure 
you. 

‘‘‘I trust,’ he said, Hhat you are as 
skilful as Monsieur Catenae ahirms, and 
as powerful as you claim to be, for there 
never was a better chance for a man to 
demonstrate his perspicacity than you have 
now. As you may believe, I have done 
all I could ; but in vain. To begin with, 
I went to the hospital where my child was 
placed. They remembered him at once, 
and showed me the register with the date, 
only — no one knew what had become of 
him. He had left the hospital when he 
was twelve, and since then had not been 
heard of. Every attempt made to discover 
him after his flight, had failed ; and no one 
could tell me whether he was living or 
dead.’ ” 

‘‘ A nice little problem to solve I ” inter- 
rupted Tantaine. 

It is a problem th \t is impossible to 
solve,” answered Perpignan. ‘‘ How on 
earth can one get on the track of a boy 
who disappeared ten years ago, and who, 
if living, must now be a man grown?” 

“ We could do it, nevertheless.” 

Tantaine's tone was so decided, that Per- 
pignan looked up quickly, full of vague 
suspicions. He wondered if the affliir had 
been offered to Mascarot also, and if he 
had managed it with more success than 
hini'self. 

^"Possible or not,” he said, sulkily, ‘^as 
I have no pretensions to being as strong as 
your master, 1 felt that the ground was 
cut away from my feet, and that there was 
noching"! could take hold of. But I put 
on a bold face, and asked for a description 
of the boy. 

The man told me that he could furnish 
me with one, accurate in every particular, 
for that many persons — the matron of the 
hospital among others— remembered him 
perfectly w<*ll. He could also give me 
some other details which would be useful.” 

‘‘ And these you received, of course?” 

“Not yet ” 

“You are in jest ! ” 

“ By no means. I do not know whether 
the man was keen enough to read in my 
eyes that I had not the smallest hope of 
success or not, but, at all events, he posi- 
tively refused to tell me more at that time, 
declaring that he came that morning merely 
to consult me. 

“ ‘ An affair like this,’ he said, ‘ requires 
most serious and careful consideration. 
Every step taken must be with caution and 
secresy. Neither the assistance of the 
police nor of the newspapers must be 
called in.’ 

” I at once assured the old man that my 
establishm mt was a tomb of secrets. He 
answered quietly that he took that for 
granted. Then, after saying that he 
wished me to draw up a plan of investiga- 


tions to be submitted to Monsieur Catenae, 
he took from his pocket-book a note of 
flve hundred francs, and laid it on the table 
to pay me for the time he had consumed, 
as he said. I pushed it back, though it 
cost me a pang to do so. It was too much 
or not enough, and I thought I should do 
better later. But he insisted, saying that 
he would see me soon again, and that in 
the meantime Monsieur Catenae would con- 
sult with me. He then arose and went 
away, leaving me less interested in the 
search he proposed than in wondering 
who on earth he might be ; and this was 
the end.” 

I’an-aine was convinced that the man 
was telling the truth. 

“ And you took no steps to find out his 
name?” 

Perpignan hesitated, and then deciding 
that it was no use to attempt to conceal 
anything from a man who was nearly as 
astute as Mascarot himself, he decided to 
tell the truth. 

“My client had hardly got down the 
stairs,” he answered, “ when I had put on 
a blouse and a cap, and was at his heels. 
I followed him until I saw him enter one 
of the foulest houses in the Eue de 
Varennes.” 

“ And your client was at home there,” 
answered Tantaine, quietly, “ and was no 
less a person than the Due de Champdoce.” 

“ You are right; and among my clients 
I have the honor of including that honor- 
able gentleman. But may J be choked if 
I can imagine how you found this out.” 

“Oh!” answered Tantaine, modestly; 
“ fortune favored me. But one thing I do 
not know, and that is, what the connec- 
tion is between the due and Caroline.” 

The ex-cook lifted his eyebrows. 

“Then why,” he said, “did you seta 
spy on her? My own reasons for doing so 
are simple enough. I immediately found 
out all I could in regard to the due, and 
was told that he was immensely wealthy 
and that he led a most regular life. He is 
married and loves his wife. They had an 
only son, whom they lost a year ago, and 
since then they have been inconsolable. 
Then I said to myself: ‘This due, who 
abandoned his child years ago, now wants 
to find him again, as his legitimate heir is 
dead ! ’ Don't you think my conclusion 
correct?” 

“It is logical, unquestionably. But, 
after all, you have given me no explana- 
tion in regard to Caroline Schemel.” 

Perpiguan was no match for Mascarot’s 
keen emissary, but he was acute enough, 
nevertheless, to see that he was being sub- 
jected to a series of questions which had 
been prepared in advance. He did not re- 
bel, merely because he dared not ; besides, 
if he made his statement full and sincere, 
the greater was his chance of some tangi- 
ble reward. 

“ You may believe. Monsieur Tantaine,” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


121 


he resumed, “ that I also inquired into the 
past as well as the present of the due. I 
wished to find out something about the 
mother of the child also ; but I am sorry 
to say that I did not succeed.” 

“What! not with all your resources?” 
And Tantaine smiled. 

“ Laugh at me, if you please, but out of 
the thirty servants in the Hotel de Champ- 
doce there is not one who has been there 
more than ten years. N^or could I find one 
anywhere who served the due in his youth. 
But one day I happened in at a wine mer- 
chant's in the Rue de Varennes, and en- 
tirely by chance I heard an allusion made 
to a servant who had been with the due 
twenty-five years before, and who was now 
in receipt from him of a small annuity. 
This servant was Caroline Schemel. I ob- 
tained her address, and placed a watch up- 
on her.” 

“ And what do you expect to make out 
of her?” 

“Not much, I admit. And yet this an- 
nuity looks as if she had rendered some 
especial service to her employers. Can it 
be that she had any knowledge of the birth 
of this natural child?” 

“ Your supposition is in the highest de- 
gree improbable,” answered Tantaine, care- 
lessly. 

“And since then,” added Perpignan, “ I 
have never seen hide nor hair of the due.” 

“ But Catenae has sent for you? ” 

“ Yes ; three times.” 

“ And has given you no further direc- 
tions? Has he not even told you in what 
hospital the child was placed? ” 

“No ; and on my last visit to him I told 
him frankly that I was getting tired of be- 
ing kept in the dark, and he said that he 
himself was tired, too, and was sorry that 
he had ever meddled in it.” 

Tantaine was not astonished at the ter- 
giversation of the honorable counsellor at 
law. He recognized the result of Masca- 
rot’s threats. It was expedient now for 
him in his turn to encourage the discon- 
tent and discouragement of his companion. 

“What do you infer from that?” he 
asked. 

“Not much. I fancy that Catenae has 
made no greater progress than myself. 
The due probably prefers to keep his own 
council. Were 1 in his place I should be 
afraid of finding the boy, no matter how 
much I wanted him. He may be in a prison 
or at the galleys. What else would be 
likely to happen to a boy, who ran away 
at twelve years of age from a place where 
he was well treated?” 

^ Perpignan, the tyrant over forty poor 
little wretches, was better qualified to judge 
of the abyss of iniquity b}^ which a boy of 
that age might be likely to be engulfed. 

“ I had, however,, thought out a plan of 
investigation,” he resumed. “ With money, 
patience, and skill one can do wonders. 

“ I agree with you.” 


“Well, then, let me tell you: I have 
traced an imaginary circle around the city; 

I said to myself I will enter every house, 
and all the inns in each village within this 
radius : I will visit every isolated dwelling, 
and I will say to these people : ‘ Do any of 
you remember, about such a time, lodging 
or feeding a child clothed in such a way — 
looking like this,’ etc., etc. I unquestion- 
ably should find some one who would say : 
‘Yes, I remember.’ Then I should hold a 
clew in my hands, and this clew 1 would 
follow up until from the thread I reached 
the skein.” 

This method appeared so ingenious and 
so practical to Tantaine that he involunta- 
rily exclaimed : 

“ Good I Very good ! ” 

The ex-cook dared not, however, to ac- 
cept this tribute altogether. Tantaine had 
so singular a fashion of expressing his 
praise and blame, that it was dilncult 
to decide what to take and what to leave. 

“ You are very good,” said Perpignan, 
with a disconsolate sniff. “ Perhaps, by 
and by, you will allow me to believe that 
I am not an absolute fool. Do you really 
think me an idiot? At all events, I have 
an occasional inspiration. For example, 
with regard to this boy I have a notion, 
which, if properly worked out, might lead 
to something.” 

“ May I venture to ask what it is? ” 

“ I presume the idea will be safe with 
you? 1 asked myself why, as finding the 
boy was utterly impossible, it would not 
be an easy thing to substitute another?” 

At this most unexpected proposition, 
Tantaine started and involuntarily felt of 
his spectacles ; it was his unfailing gesture 
in emergencies. Perhaps he thus assured 
himself that his eyes were well sheltered 
and could disclose nothing of his thoughts. 

“ It would be a most dangerous, a most 
audacious thing to do,” he gasped. 

Perpignan had seen this start and accep- 
ted it as an involuntary homage to his con- 
ception. 

“You were afraid, then? ” 

“Afraid! I afraid! You do not know 
me ! ” 

Tantaine became more and more bland. 

“ If you were not afraid,” he asked, in 
an oily voice, “ why did you give it up? ” 

“ Because there was an obstacle, sir, an 
insurmountable obstacle.” 

“ I do not see it, I confess,” answered 
Tantaine, desirous of probing to the bot- 
tom all Perpignan’s thoughts. 

“ If you don’t, then, it is because I omit- 
ted one thing in my narration.” 

The due took care to state distinctly that 
he should be enabled to ascertain the iden- 
tity of the boy by certain scars. 

“ Scars of what kind?” 

“ Ah ! you ask me too much, now.” 

Upon this reply Tantaine rose hastily, 
thus concealing his agitation from his com- 
panion. 


122 


THE 8 LAVES OF PABI8. 


“ T have a thousand apologies to make, 
my dear sir,” he said, with the most care- 
less air in the world. “ I am in despair at 
having absorbed so much of your valuable 
time. My master took it into his head 
that you were chasing the same hare as 
himself, and I apologize in his name for 
his mistake. And we now leave the field 
clear for you.” 

Before Perpignan could reply, the old 
man was in the corridor. He turned, how- 
ever, and said : 

“ Were I in your place, I would adhere 
to the first plan you mentioned. You will 
never find the child, but you will receive 
from the due several thousand francs, 
which will not, I fancy, come amiss. 
Good-morning.” 

Was the ex-cook duped by these words? 
Tantaine did not trouble himself to inquire. 
What did it matter? The important thing 
now was not to allow him to suspect the 
emotions to which he, Tantaine, was now 
the prey. 

‘‘There are scars, are they?” he mut- 
tered, as he hurried down the lane, and 
I never knew it, never suspected it, and 
Catenae, the traitor, never told me.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

B. Mascarot explained in a sufficiently 
simple and graphic manner his mode of 
operation when he compared himself to 
the manager of a puppet show, who, invis- 
ible to the audience, holds all the wires in 
his own hand, and moves them at will. 

As soon as, voluntarily or accidentally, 
a personage appeared on the scene of 
which B. Mascarot had so patiently pre- 
pared the denouement, he, to use his own 
expression, hitched on a wire.” Or in 
other words, more clear, possibly, than this 
theatrical parlance, he put this personage 
under the discreet surveillance of one of 
his guardian angels. 

Therefore, in less than two hours after 
Andre left Modeste at the corner of the 
Avenue Matignon he had at his heels a spy 
who was ordered to report each of his 
acts — the most insignificant — to Mascarot 
himself. This spy was no other than 
Beaumarchef-s colleague, a trustworthy 
youth as Mascarot fully believed. He was 
told to be especially cautious, and keep 
hims(df well out of sight. 

But there was small need of caution, for 
the knowledge that Sabine was out of dan- 
ger so absorbed Andre he paid little atten- 
tion to exterior objects. Besides, he was 
more hopeful in regard to the future than 
ever before. He had a friend now. Mon- 
sieur de Breulh-Faverlay ; a confidante, 
Madame de Bois d’Ardon — two allies — 
whose influence properly exercised might 
well be decisive. He had become warmly 
attached to De Breulh ; their common an- 
guish in the last three days had brought 
them very nearly together, and created a 


friendship between them such as time alone 
generally cements. 

“And now to work!” thought Andre. 
“ I have lost too much time I ” 

He left Monsieur de Breulh after dinner 
therefore, in the best possible spirits. 

“To-morrow,” he said, as he pressed 
his host’s hand, “ if you should chance to 
look up as you pass through the Champs 
Ely sees, you will see me on a scafiblding 
at work above you.” 

Andre was busy half the night in pre- 
paring the designs to submit to Monsieur 
Gandelu, that contractor who was so rich 
that he wanted as much ornamentation on 
the outside ot his own dwelling as upon 
the inside. He rose, however, at an early 
hour the next morning, and, unveiling Sa- 
bine’s portrait, he addressed to it a cordial 
good-morning, and then started out, with 
his portfolio under his arm, to call on 
Monsieur Gandelu, the happy father of 
young Monsieur Gaston. 

It was in the Rue de la Chaussee d’Autin, 
in a mansion that belonged to himself, that 
this celebrated contractor and architect, 
who had built one of the prettiest theatres 
in Paris — Les Comedies Parisiennes — re- 
sided. 

When Andre presented himself at the 
door, an old servant advised him strongly 
to postpone his business. 

“ I do not know,” he said. “ what has 
come over monsieur ; but never, no never, 
have I seen him, in the whole five years I 
have been with him, in such a mood. 
Now just listen I ” 

There was no need of listening to hear 
the oaths and exclamations, the crash of 
glass, and the dull thud of furniture 
thrown down upon the fioor. 

“ Monsieur has been going on like that 
for an hour I ” continued the servant ; 
“ ever since liis lawyer. Monsieur Cate- 
nae, left him. Consequently, if I were 
you ” 

But Andre was in no mood to wait. 

“I must see him, nevertheless. Show 
me in at once,” he said. 

The servant obeyed, but with evident re- 
luctance, and opened the door of an enor- 
mous room superbly decorated, in the 
centre of which stood the architect, ges- 
ticulating furiously with the back of a 
chair, which he held in his hand. 

Although over sixty, Gandelu did not 
look fifty. He was a perfect Hercules — 
muscular and square shouldered; hairy 
hands, each as large as a leg of mutton. He 
always looked hampered in his satin-lined 
coats and seemed to regret the easy blouse 
of his young days. He was proud of his 
success and his fortune, which was enor- 
mous ; and he had a right to be, since it 
was the outgrowth of two good things — 
work and economy. And even those per- 
sons who envied him were forced to admit 
that not a single five-franc piece in his 
pocket, back to the very first one he 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


123 


owned had a speck of mud upon it. He 
liked to talk of the days when he was poor 
and friendless. 

He was vulgar and brutal, and as quick 
as gunpowder, with no education what- 
ever, but under this coarse husk were hid- 
den the most noble sentiments. He was 
generous to a fault, and the soul of honor. 
He swears like a Pagan, it is true; that 
his grammar is atrocious is incontestable ; 
but he is good in the full sense of the 
word. His hands may be calloused, but 
his heart is tender. 

As soon as the door opened, he shouted : 
“ What fool is coming to disturb me 
now?” 

“ This is the hour appointed,” began An- 
dre, who at once saw that he had done 
wisely in insisting on coming in, for the 
architect’s brow cleared at once. 

“Ah! it is you, is it? Well, come in,” 
and then in a softer voice, he added: 
“take a seat, if there is a steady chair 
left in the room. I like you,” said Gan- 
delu, “ for you have an honest face, and 
you look healthy, and you never shirk 
work. You need not blush, young man, 
though modesty is no fault.” 

In vain did Andre seek to check the 
contractor’s panegyric, but he was not to 
be silenced. 

“Yes” he insisted, “you have some- 
thing in you. Any time when you want a 
hundred thousand francs to go into busi- 
ness with, it is ready for you. If I had a 
daughter, she should be your wife. I 
would say : ‘ Here, my boy, take her and 
her dowry, and I will build you a house I ’” 

Andre did not know Monsieur Gandelu 
well enough to understand what wind had 
blown up this storm. 

“I am very grateful,” he answered, 
“but I have learned to depend upon my- 

“True,” said Gandelu, in a voice that 
was full of anguish. “You never knew 
your parents. You never knew all that a 
father — a kind father — would do for his 
son.^ You would have loved your father, 
I think,” he added, slowly. Then he sud- 
denly turned on Andre! “Do you know 
my son?” 

This question was the key-note to the 
whole scene, and Andre realized instantly 
that he was in the presence of a justly 
irritated parent, who took a bitter satis- 
faction in comparing his unworthy son to 
a young man whose intelligence and en- 
ergy excited his admiration. 

Andre, who well remembered the dinner 
given by Rose, and also certain expres- 
«ions then used by young GandeJu, hesi- 
tated. It would not be the truth, were he 
to say: “No,” simply: and he replied 
quiet 1}^, “ that he had met Monsieur Gas- 
ton two or three times only.” 

“ Gaston I ” cried the architect with an 
oath. “ Never pronounce that name again 
in my hearing. Do you really suppose 


that I, Nicolas Gandelu, ever named a son 
Gaston? He was named Pierre, for his 
grandfather; but this name did not suit 
the young fool — it was not fine enough 
for him. He wanted a gentle, sweet lictle 
name — a distinguished name, like those of 
the creatures who sneer and laugh at him. 
Pierre is common, and smells of work and 
honesty, but Gaston sounds like a prince, 
and smells like pomade. Dear Gaston! 
sweet Gaston I ” 

The man’s expression was so intensely 
funny, as he imitated a woman’s soft voice 
that Andre, moved by compassion, as he 
really was, had great difiiculty in conceal- 
ing a smile. 

•'But if that were all,” continued Mon- 
sieur Gandelu, “ I should shrug my shoul- 
ders and let it go. But have you seen his 
visiting cards? They are engraved with 
the name Gaston de Gandelu, and in one 
of the corners is a coronet. Marquis! 
He, the son of a man who was once a hod 
carrier, to call himself a marquis ! ” 

“ Young people,” Andre ventured to say 
“ all have their little weaknesses.” 

But Monsieur Gandelu was not the man 
to be soothed by a commonplace observa- 
tion like this. 

“ No ! ” he thundered — you cannot ex- 
cuse him. The fellow blushes for his 
father. A name that is pure and spotless 
is not enough for him, he would prefer to 
be the son of some titled reprobate. He 
talks about his society — and what is 
society? Dissolute women and profligate 
men — I know his friends — as idle and 
dissolute as himself. They go about curled 
and scented like dolls, and are absolute 
caricatures — and it is for these people 
that he assumes the ‘de.’ When waiters 
in the restaurants say to him : ‘ Monsieur 
le Marquis,’ he is in the seventh heaven — 
idiot! He never once sees that they are 
laughing at him. They flatter him and 
caress him, and he is simple enough to be- 
lieve that they pay this homage to his 
beauty and wit — not at all! They bow 
down before the gold pieces of his father 
— the mason.” 

Andre’s situation was becoming more 
and more fearful and awkward. He would 
have given much to withdraw from con- 
fidences that were the result of anger, and 
which would certainly be afterward re- 
gretted, but he did not dare to break away 
and retire. 

“ He is only twenty,” continued Mon- 
sieur Gandelu, “ and yet he is utterly used 
up and hlasL He is old, his eyes are 
bleared, and his hair is gone. He stoops 
as he drags himself about, and he spends 
his nights in drinking. But it is my fault ; 
I have been too indulgent ; I have always 
allowed him to have his way. If he had 
asked me for my skin to make him a bed- 
side rug, I should not have refused. As 
soon as he could speak, he had only to say 
he wanted a thing to have it. I lost my 


124 


THE SLAVE 8 OF PABIS. 


poor wife, and I had only him. Do you 
know what he has here? Apartments fit 
for a prince, two servants, and four horses 
at his disposal. I allow him monthly fif- 
teen hundred francs for cigars and trifies, 
and he goes about calling me a miser. He 
runs in debt, and has already squandered 
every sou of his poor mother’s fortune.” 

He stopped suddenly. The color faded 
from his crimson face, he turned pale — 
the door opened, and young Gaston, or 
Pierre rather, came lounging in. 

“ It is, I suppose, the portion of most 
fathers. It is part of our destiny to build 
on sand and see it swallow up all the pro- 
jects we have formed for the futures of our 
children. Our sons who should be our 
glory are the chastisement of our pride.” 

That is good, very gpod,” murmured 
Gaston, for a man who has never stud- 
ied elocution.” 

Fortunately his father did not hear this 
new piece of impertinence, and continued 
in a hoarse voice : 

That unhappy boy. Monsieur Andre, 
is my son. I swear to you that for twenty 
years he has been my one care and thought 
— he has filled my heart and my head — 
I have lived only in him and for him. 
Very well, last week he made a wager on 
my death, just as you might on one of the 
race horses at Vincennes.” 

No ! no ! ’* exclaimed Gaston. 

His father made a gesture of contempt. 

‘‘ Have at lea><t the courage to acknowl- 
edge your brutality. You thought me 
blind, my lad, because I did not choose to 
say to you, ‘I see.’ And you kindly 
opened my eyes for me ! ” 

But, father ” 

“Do not deny it I This very morning 
my business man. Monsieur Catenae, came 
here, and he had that moral courage which 
only true friends show, to tell me the 
truth. I know all ” 

The poor man’s tone was so horror- 
stricken, that Andre asked hiniself in dread 
what he was about to hear. 

That it was something terrible was clear, 
from the fact that Gaston’s assurance 
seemed to have deserted him. 

“ I must tell you. Monsieur Andre,” re- 
sumed the contractor. 

He was carefully dressed, and wore his 
customary self-satisfied expression. He 
advanced slowly, with his hat on his head, 
and his cigar between his teeth. 

“ Good-morning, father. How are you 
to-day? ” 

But his father drew back. 

“ Don't come near me,” he said, with a 
shudder. 

Gaston looked somewhat surprised, and 
looked at Andre. 

“ Out of temper are you? Is it the 
gout, father, or business worry?” 

Gandelu raised the chair-back he still 
held so threateningly that Andre precipi- 
tated himself between father and son. 


“Don’t be afraid,” said Gandelu, in a 
dreary voice; “ I have not taken leave of 
my senses yet.” 

And, either to reassure the young paint- 
er, or distrusting himself, he threw his 
impromptu weapon into a corner. 

Gaston had been startled undoubtedly 
by his father’s manner ; but he was not a 
coward, and did not easily lose his assu- 
rance. 

“ Bless my heart ! ” he murmured. “ In- 
fanticide ! I did not expect this little fam- 
ily fete, as Dupuis at the Varieties says, 
in ” 

He did not finish his sentence, for Andre 
snatched his wrist and said fiercely, in a 
low voice : 

“Not another word ! ” 

But the silence that followed was not to 
the taste of Monsieur Pierre Gandelu. 

“ Yes,” he resumed, “ silence and mys- 
tery! I should like, however, to be in- 
formed what it all means.” 

Monsieur Gandelu replied, but he ad- 
dressed Andre, not his son : 

“ I will explain to you. Monsieur Andre,’^ 
he said, ""and you, possibly,' will under- 
stand my disturbance and sorrow — which 
alas ! that last week I was BuflTering from 
an attack of the gout, such as a man does 
not often have two of, and live through. 
I made my will. Solid buildings crunible 
altogether, they don’t give wa^ in bits; 
and I thought my hour had come. My 
son hovered about my bed, and in spite of 
my intense sufferings, I was happy in his 
attentive fondness. He loves me, I said, 
after all ! He has not much sense, but his 
heart is in the right place. He would shed 
a few tears over ray grave, I am sure. 
But when I thought, I was a simpleton^ 
and grievously mistaken. 

“ He was not watching over me to pre- 
serve my life. He was lying in wait for 
death, which would give him entire posses- 
sion of my fortune. 

“If he looked sad, it was only because 
when out of my room he was harrassed by 
creditors. And when he left me, it was 
only to negotiate a loan, and to tell every 
one how ill I was, and that there was no 
possibility of my recovery. 

“ He went to a usurer named Clergeot 
and obtained a loan of a hundred thousand 
francs, assuring him that 1 had but a few 
hours to live. 

“ I had in my hands, not an hour ago, the 
paper on which the conditions were in- 
scribed. 

“ These were, that if I should die with- 
in eight days, that ray son would give 
twenty thousand fr.incs commission, and 
if I should live a month, he agreed to pay, 
at the expiration of that time, one hundred 
and fifty thousand francs. 

“ But if, by any unlucky chance, I should 
recover, he would agree to pay Clergeot 
two hundred thousand francs.” 

The poor fellow tore the cravat from his 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


125 


throat and gasped for breath, as with a 
trembling hand he wiped the beads of cold 
perspii-ation from his brow. 

This man will never forgive me,” 
thought Andre for having been the in- 
voluntary confidant of this dreary story.” 

But the young man was mistaken. Prim- 
itive natures never sufter in silence; they 
demand the relief of words. All that Gan- 
delu had said to Andre he would have 
said to any man who had come in at that 
moment. 

‘‘Before paying out a sum like this — 
for a hundred thousand francs is no trifie 
— the usurer Avished to discover if it was 
all as was pretended. He asked for a cer- 
tificate from some one in the house. This 
some one my son found. He talked to me 
of a physician, a specialist, who, he said, 
would understand my case perfectly ; 
would I not see him? 

“Never had I seen my son so kind, so 
affectionate ; he insisted with such tender 
earnestness that I yielded at last, and one 
evening said to him : 

‘ Bring your wonderful doctor, if you 
really think he can cure me.’ ” 

“ And he brought him ! ” 

“Yes, Monsieur Andre, he found a 
physician base enough to be made a tool 
of by my son and the usurer — and this 
physician I can expose to-day, if I choose, 
to the contempt of the public and the in- 
dignation of his confreres. This man came. 
He remained nearly an hour. 1 can see 
him now leaning over my bed, asking in- 
numerable questions and feeling my pulse. 
He went away at last, leaving some insig- 
nificant prescription; he went away fol- 
lowed by my son. They both met Cler- 
geot in the street, where he was waiting 
for them and for the result of this mon- 
strous consultation. ‘ You can leave your 
money ; the old man can't live twenty-four 
hours.' 

‘"And this is the reason that my son 
came back in five minutes, happy and 
smiling, and said, in a gay voice : 

"‘ ‘ All right, father! You will soon be 
out again I ’ 

“ 1 am out again, in spite of the doctor's 
assertion; for, strange as it may appear, 
I began to improve that very night. 

“ It so happened that Clergeot had asked 
for forty-eight hours in w hich to raise the 
cash. In that time he learned of my re- 
covery, and my son lost his money.” 

Tears stood in the eyes of the poor old 
father. It was a lamentable spectacle. 
He was silent for a few moments^ and then, 
in a heart-broken voice, he turned to his 
son : 

“ Was it courage you lacked, my boy? 
You could easily have hastened the death 
you so earnestly desired. You did not know, 
possibly, that one of my medicines was a 
deadly poison, and that ten drops instead 
of one Avould have freed you from me.” 

Andre was watching Gaston. He took 


it for granted that he would have thrown 
himself at his father's feet and implored 
his pardon. Not so. Gaston stood impas- 
sive, pale and with lips compressed. He 
seemed humiliated and irritated, but not 
moved or touched. In fact, he was at that 
moment absorbed in wondering how the 
story of this negotiation with Clergeot 
reached Catenae's ears, and how he had 
procured the original contract. 

The contractor had thought, Avith Andre, 
that his son Avould ask forgiveness. 

But seeing that he remained obstinately 
silent, his father's violence redoubled. 

“You understand, my dear Andre,” he 
said, "‘the noble use my son Avould make 
of my fortune. He would pour it out at 
the feet of a creature picked up in the gut- 
ter, Avhom he sees fit to call a vicomtesse 
— Vicomtesse de Chantemille I Marquis 
Gaston ! They are Avoi thy of each other.” 

Gaston Avas touched noAV. 

“You shall njt insult Gora!” he ex- 
claimed. 

His father laughed. 

“ I shall not ? ” he repeated. “ I shall do 
Avhat I please Avith your Gora. You are 
not tAventy-one yet, and I shall shut up 
your vicomtesse in prison ” 

“You Avould not do that? ” 

“Indeed I Avili; you are a minor, but 
your Gora, Avhose name, by the Avay, is 
Rose, is much older. The code is precise, 
and I have read it.’* 

“ But, father! ” 

“ It is no use : my lawyer has filed a 
complaint, and before night your vicom- 
tesse Avill be safe behind stone Avails.” 

This blow Avas so cruel an I so unex- 
pected that the young man could only re- 
peat : 

*• Gora in prison! ” 

“ Yes, in the House of Correction, rather, 
and finally at Saint Lazure. Catenae told 
me just the routine.’' 

‘* It is shameful ! ” cried Gaston ; “ Gora 
in the House of Correction ! Do it if you 
choose — 1 and all my friends Avill besiege 
the place. What would become of her 
beautiful toilettes? I Avill go to court and 
Avill stand ;it her side there, and will prove 
that this attack proceeds from your fiend- 
ish malice. I Avill say that I love and es- 
teem her, and that Avhen I am one-and- 
tAventy I shall marry her. The papers^ 
will write articles about us. Go on! I 
rather like it, on the Avhole. Great as a 
man's self-control may be, it is not with- 
out its limits.” 

Monsieur Gandelu had contained him- 
self as long as possible, and even Avhile lie 
told his son that he knew the horrible vil- 
lainy of which he had been guilty, he had 
retained his command over himself: but 
these absurd and cynical threats Avere 
more than he could endure. He started 
forward, and as quick as thought opened 
the door with one liand, and Avitli the other 
pushed Gaston into the corridor. 


126 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


The contractor’s hand fell at his side. 

“ What have you done?” he exclaimed. 
‘‘ Do you not see that he will go to that 
creature and warn her, and she will have 
time to make her escape? Let me go!” 
and as Andre, fearing he knew not what, 
tried to restrain him, the old man, with 
his muscular arm, shoved the youth aside 
as if he had been a feather, and rushed 
out of the room, shouting to his servants. 

The young painter was absolutely chilled 
with terror. In vain would he attempt to 
describe this scene in which he had, in 
spite of himself, played a part. 

Andre was neither a Puritan nor a sim- 
pleton. He had lived much and suffered 
much. He had met in his short life many 
bad men, and elbowed many rascals. He 
had known many libertines who were the 
terror of their families ; but it had never 
so chanced that he had come across one of 
these prematurely developed men; boys 
whose youth is gone, who have neither 
brains nor heart, and yet who flatter them- 
selves that they represent the flower of 
French chivalry. 

He had been amused by their follies 
when he beheld them caricatured on the 
stage ; but he never dreamed of the odious 
side of their natures. He had no concep- 
tion of the impudence and vanity, of the 
cold rascality, and of the absolute selfish- 
ness of a '•''petit crevey 

He, better than any one else, probably, 
could form an accurate estimate of Gas- 
ton’s conduct, for at thirteen he was 
thrown on the world, and had often longed 
for those family ties, the blessing of which 
had never been his. But he had no time 
for reflection, for Monsieur Gandelu ap- 
peared with a composed countenance and 
air of genial roughness. 

“ Let me tell you how things are now,” 
he said, in a voice that shook in spite of 
himself. “My son is locked into his 
room, and an old servant, whom he cannot 
compel or bribe, has mounted guard in the 
hall.” 

“ Have you no fear, sir, that in his ex- 
citement and anger ” 

The contractor shrugged his shoulders. 

“Alas! you do not know him. You 
would make a very great mistake if you 
supposed him to resemble in any way any 
man whom you know. What do you think 
he is doing at this blessed minute? Lying 
on his bed face down, howling for his 
Gora — Gora indeed! I ask you if that is 
any name for a Christian. What do these 
creatures give these boys to drink that 
deprives them of every manly quality ! If 
his mother had not been a saint upon 
earth I should feel certain that he was not 
my son I ” 

He dropped into a chair, and laid his 
head on the desk in front of him. 

“ You are in pain, sir?” asked Andre. 

“Yes; my heart is bleeding. I have 
been only a father heretofore ; now I in- 


tend to be a man, also. Monsieur Catenae 
has told me precisely what I should do. 
The law is on my side. To-morrow I call 
in my family for a consultation. And I 
shall announce to them that, in future, I 
shall pay no debts of my son’s contraction. 
He shall not have a penny, and he will see 
if, with his pockets empty, he will be 
adored as he is now by his ‘ society.’ 

“ As to the girl, she will be waltzed out 
of the way to pretty lively music ” 

He interrupted himself and sat for a few 
minutes in profound silence, a prey to 
melancholy thoughts. 

“ I have thoroughly weighed the conse- 
quences of my complaint: they are ap- 
palling. My son will do as he threatens — 
of that I am sure. I can see him now, 
sitting by the side of that infamous creat- 
m'e — looking at her lovingly, telling her 
aloud that he adores her — glorying in his 
folly and his shame before all Paris. I 
know that the newspaper reporters will 
gloat over the scene, that they will turn it 
into ridicule, and that it wilt all reflect on 
me, of course — that my name will be dis- 
honored ” 

“ But is there no other course? ” Andre 
ventured to ask. 

“No; none whatever. If all fathers 
had my courage, we should not see profli- 
gates at twenty. In this matter Monsieur 
Catenae agrees with me. Besides, it is ab- 
solutely impossible that this idea of the 
physician and the loan could have origi- 
nated in my son’s brain. He is a mere 
child, and some one must have advised 
him.” 

The father was already seeking an ex- 
cuse for his son. 

“But,” continued Gandelu, “ I must not 
dwell on this any longer, or I shall become 
half crazy, as I was before. I will see 
your drawings another day; now let us 
go out.” 

He rose, and looked around the room. 

“See,” he said, “the state I have put 
things into ; such handsome furniture, 
too I Whenever I saw a spot on any of it, 
I used to rub it with the tail of my coat : 
but when I am in a passion, I am like a 
wild beast — I must destroy something.” 

He snatched Andre’s hands, and crushed 
them between his own. 

“ Look here,” he said ; “ you have prob- 
ably saved my son’s life and my own. 
When I rushed forward, it was with mur- 
der in my heart — all was red before my 
eyes — I wonder I did not have a fit of apo- 
plexy. I know very well that one can 
never repay such services, but I shall set 
it down to your account. Come with me, 
I want to look at my house in the Champs 
Elysees, and we will breakfast on our 
way.” 

This building, of which Andre had to do 
the ornamentation, stood at the corner of 
the Rue de Chaillot and the Avenue des 
Champs Elysees. It was still shrouded in 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


127 


scafifoldings, and very little of it could be 
seen. 

A dozen workmen, engaged by Andre, 
were dotted here and there. They had 
been waiting for him ever since the morn- 
ing, and were surprised at his non-arrival, 
as he was punctuality itself. They greeted 
him cordially, for they were all his asso- 
ciates. But Monsieur Gandelu, who was 
never reserved or haughty in his manners 
toward the people he employed, took no 
notice of them but passed them without a 
word. 

He walked about through the different 
rooms and examined, without seeing, the 
work that had been done since his last in- 
spection , for his thoughts were with his 
son — his only son — who lay despairingly 
on his bed in his spacious room in the 
Ghaussie d’ Antin. At the end of some 
fifteen minutes he turned to Andre. 

‘"I cannot stay,” he said: “I do not 
feel well. I am going home. I will be 
here to-morrow, however.” 

And he departed, with his head bowed 
low. His workmen noticed his unusual 
manner. 

He does not look right,” one said to 
another. Since his attack of gout he 
has not been the same man. I think he 
has had a great shock.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Andre had taken off his coat and put on 
his blouse, which was rolled up in his tool- 
box. 

‘‘We must work hard,” he said, “to 
make up for lost time.” 

He applied himself to his task, therefore, 
with considerable energy. But he had not 
got fairly into harness when a small ap- 
prentice ran lightly up the scaffolding to 
say that a gentleman wished to see him. 

And a smart gentleman he is, too,” 
added the boy. 

Andre was intensely annoyed at being 
disturbed, but when he reached the pave- 
ment and saw Monsieur de Breulh-Faver- 
lay, his ill-humor disappeared like mist be- 
fore the sun. 

It was with pleasure that Andre ad- 
vanced to meet his friend, toward whom 
his gratitude was so great, for not only 
had he effaced himself as it were, but he 
had become the most useful and devoted 
of auxiliaries. 

“ Ah I this is really most kind of you,” 
Andre cried, in his fresh young voice. 
“Thanks for remembering me;” and 
showing his hands all white with plaster, 
he added : 

“You will excuse my appearance, I 
trust, but ” 

The words died on his lips. He had 
caught a full view of De Breulh's face. 

“ What is it? ” said the young man anx- 
iously. “ Is Mademoiselle de Mussidan 
worse? — has she had a relapse? ” 


His friend shook his head sadly, and his 
face clearly said : 

“ Would* it were only that.” 

But Andre was entirely relieved. What 
could touch him so nearly as the health of 
his beloved. He waited patiently until it 
pleased his friend to speak. 

“ I have been here tvvice for you,” said 
De Breulh. “ We have had a brief talk; 
it is most important that you should come 
to a prompt decision on a matter of great 
interest.” 

“ I am entirely at your order,” Andre 
replied, much surprised and troubled. 

“Then come with me. My carriage is 
not here, but it will not take us more than 
fifteen minutes to walk to my house.” 

“ I will follow you, sir; I only ask for a 
moment’s delay for time to run up four 
flights of stairs.” 

“ Have you orders to give ! ” 

“ None," sir.” 

“ Why go, then? ” 

“ To put on a more presentable garment 
than this blouse.” 

Monsieur de Breulh shrugged his shoul- 
ders. • 

“ Does it annoy or inconvenience you to 
go out in that costume?” 

“ By no means, I am accustomed to it; 
it is entirely on your account.” 

“ If that is all, then come on as you are.” 

“ But, my dear sir, you will be stared 
at.” 

“ Let them stare.” 

“ They will say ?’ 

“ Let them say what they please! ” in- 
terrupted De Breulh, and without waiting 
to hear another word from Andre, De 
Breulh put his arm through his friend’s 
and dragged him off. 

The young painter's previsions were cor- 
rect. The two friends had not gone ten 
steps, but ten persons had already turned 
to look at the superb-looking man, with 
the air of a duke, walking arm in arm with 
a youth in a blouse and a gray felt cap. 

De Breulh had also foreseen this result. 
Men occupying as prominent a position as 
himself in the world, rarely do things 
carelessly. They are perfectly well aware 
that their smallest acts will excite com- 
ment, and therefore are in the habit of 
resisting their first impulses. If, then, 
De Breulh saw fit to take Andre’s arm in 
this familiar way, it was because it en- 
tered into his plan of action that the world 
should talk of this surprising intimacy. 
He knew that people would at once make 
inquiries about Andre, and he proposed to 
reply to all curious questions in a way 
that" would greatly affect the young paint- 
er’s future. 

This step seemed so premeditated to An- 
dre that he was profoundly puzzled, and 
he lost himself in a labyrinth of conjec- 
tures, each one more unlikely than the 
others. 

He endeavored to question his compan- 


128 


THE 8LAVE8 OF PABI8. 


ion, but De Breulh answered in a tone 
that admitted of no second attempt in that 
direction. 

‘‘Wait until we are inside my doors.” 

At last they arrived, v/ithout having ex- 
changed twenty words on their way. 
They entered the library and closed the 
doors. 

Once there, Monsieur de Breulh did not 
allow his young friend to endure further 
suspense. 

“This morning, about noon,” he instantly 
began, “ as I was crossing the Avenue de 
Matignon, I saw Modeste, who had been 
watching for you for more than an hour.” 

“It was not my fault ” 

“ Never mind ! When she saw me, how- 
ever, she came to me at once. She was in 
despair at not seeing you, and knowing 
our friendship she entrusted me with a 
letter for you from Mademoiselle de Mus- 
sidan.” 

Andre shivered. This letter was the 
bearer of evil tidings — he felt it instantl}’’ 

— and these tidings he was certain that De 
Breulh already knew. 

“ Giye it to me,” he whispered, hoarsely. 

De Breulh handed it to him. 

“ Courage ! my friend, courage ! ” he 
said. 

With trembling hands Andre broke the 
seal, and read : 

“ My Friend — I love you, and I shall 
never cease to love you with my whole 
heart and strength, but there are duties — 
sacred duties — which every Mussidan 
must fulfil. I will fulfil those which fall 
to my lot, even should the doing so cost 
me my life. We shall never meet again, 
and thi ^ letter is the last you will ever re- 
ceive from me. 

“ Before long you will hear of my mar- 
riage. Pity me I Great as will be your 
despair, it will be as nothing compared to 
mine. God have mercy on us ! Try and 
forget me, Andre. As for myself, I have 
not even the right to die. One more word 

— oh, my only friend, the last word I shall 
ever speak to you — Adieu I Sabine.” 

If Monsieur de Breulh had insisted on 
taking Andre home with him before de- 
livering this letter, it was because he had 
received some hint of its contents from 
Modeste, and feared its effects upon An- 
dre ; he need not have done so. 

Andre, on reading it, became absolutely 
livid. His eyes were wild for a moment, 
and he shook from head to foot, but not a 
sound escaped his lips. 

It was with an automaton-like movement, 
so to speak, that he extended this letter to 
Monsieur de Breulh, saying as he did so : 

“Read! ” 

His friend obeyed, more terrified by 
Andre’s calmness than he would have 
been by any explosion. 

“ Do" not allow yourself to be discour- 
aged, my friend ” he began to say. 


But Andre stopped him. 

“Discouraged! I discouraged? You da 
not know me. When I knew Sabine to be 
ill — dying, perhaps, and I away from her,^ 
I was indeed discouraged. But while Sa- 
bine tells me she loves me, I know no such 
word.” 

De Breulh opened his mouth to speak^ 
but Andre went on : 

“ What marriage is this which Made* 
moiselle de Mussidan announces to me as if 
it were her condemnation to death? They 
must have intended to break with you 
when you took the initiative. Can it be a 
more brilliant match? Hardly. She cer- 
tainly knew nothing of it when she con- 
fided her secret to you. What terrible 
thing has come to pass sin ‘e then ! My 
brave and noble Sabine is not one of those 
weak girls who are married against their 
will. She has said to me a hundred times : 
‘ If they attempt coercion, I will leave my 
father’s house in the full light of day, and 
never again cross its threshold ; ’ and she 
cannot have changed so quickly. No ! we 
are the victims of some abominable ma- 
chinations.” 

All these reflections now uttered with 
such vehemence by Andre, Monsieur de 
Breulh had already made ; and though he 
had told him the truth, he had not told alL 

It was to himself, and not to the young 
artist, that Modeste had intended all the 
time to give Sabine’s note. 

Informed of her resolution by her young 
mistress, who had, however, given no rea- 
sons, the faithful servant had felt the blood 
run cold in her veins at the thought of the 
state of desperation into which Andre 
would be thrown. She therefore had laid 
in wait for Monsieur de Breulh — had told 
him all she knew, and then, with tears and 
sobs, entreated him to watch over Andre. 

“You are his friend, sir. In Heaven’s 
name watch him.” 

This caution it was which caused Mon- 
sieur de Breulh to insist on Andre’s going 
home with him. But he soon saw how 
needless it had been. 

“ Of course, sir, you have noticed tho 
strange coincidence between Sabine's ill- 
ness and this despairing letter. You left 
her smiling and hopeful ; and an hour, or 
less than an hour later, she falls to the 
ground as if struck by lightning — horrible 
nervous convulsions bring her down to the 
edge of the grave. As soon as she has re- 
covered her senses, she writes this letter.” 

The young painter stood with his eyes 
fixed on vacancy ; the pupils were dilated, 
and he seemed with outstretched arm to 
be following some shadow, some faint 
glimmer of light unseen by his companion. 

“ Do you remember, sir,” he continued, 
“ while Sabine was delirious, that her 
father and mother watched at her bedside 
in turn, and would not allow even a ser- 
vant in the room ? Modeste told us that,, 
you know.” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


129 


“Yes; I remember she did.” 

“Very well — is not that all sufficient 
proof that there was some secret between 
the count, the countess, and their daughter? 
A secret that they guard as they would 
their honor?” 

This, too, De Breulh had said to himself ; 
but his supposition had a more tangible 
foundation than Andre’s. He knew the 
count and countess well. He knew much 
of their domestic lives, and he knew too 
what was said in the world of their rela- 
tions toward each other. 

“ I have long had reason to suppose, my 
dear friend,” he answered, ‘‘that in the 
Mussidan family is one of those painful 
secrets which are to be found, alas! in 
only too many families.” 

“Such as what?” 

“ Ah I that I cannot say; but I am con- 
vinced there is something.” 

Andre turned away and walked up and 
do^vn the room with rapid strides. 

He recalU'd every interview he had ever 
had with Sabine. He reviewed every 
trivial word that had ever dropped from 
her lips in regard to her parents. He 
even sought to revive in his memor}'' each 
syllable uttered by the Dowager de Che- 
vanche at the Chateau de Mussidan. 

He sought to bind phrases and words 
together, and his work was much like that 
of a man who, with broken and scattered 
links, tries to create once more a perfect 
chain. 

After eight or ten turns he stopped sud- 
denly and faced his host. 

“There is a mystery,” he exclaimed, 
“ a mystery which you and I will pene- 
trate ! 1 will leave no stone unturned until 
we succeed.” 

He drew a chair close to his friend, who 
was half lying on a couch. 

“ Listen to me,” he said, “ and if I ad- 
vani e anyth ng which is not clear to you, 
or whenever you differ from me, stop me. 
Are you convinced in your own mind that 
Sabine loves me?” 

“ Entirely so.” 

“ Then you think that it is under imper- 
ious necessity that she writes that letter 
to me?” 

“ That is clear.” 

“You were accepted by both the count 
and countess as their son-in-law?” 

“Precisely.” 

“N«)w 1 ask if Monsieur de Mussidan 
could have anywhere found a more bril- 
Ihtnt parti for his daughter — one who 
would combine so many advantages of 
person, mind and manners with such a 
fortune and position?” 

De Breulh could not restrain a smile. 

“This is no time for modesty,” said 
Andre, impatiently. “ Answer me.” 

“ Very well then. I admit that, accord- 
ing to the judgment of the world, in 
which we live. Monsieur de Mussidan 
would find it difficult to replace me.” 


“ Then tell me why it is that neither the 
count or countess have made any effort to 
retain you ? ” 

“Wounded pride, I presume, and ” 

“No,” interrupted Andre ; “ for Modeste 
says that the day your letter came, the 
count was about to call on you to retract 
his promise. 

“True — at least if we can believe 
Modeste, it is true.” 

Andre started up, as if to give more 
weight to his words. 

“ Then,” he exclaimed, “ this suitor who 
has appeared so suddenly, will marry 
Sabine, not only against her will, but 
against the will of her parents themselves I 
And why? Whence comes this man with 
this mysterious power? His influence is 
too great to be honorable. If the count 
and the countess resign themselves to 
this indignity, it is because they cannot 
help themselves. This constraint, too, is 
entirel}'’ moral, for Sabine would submit to 
no other, I am sure of that. Her duty has 
been pointed out to her. She submits 
simply; she is sacrificed; and this man, 
whomsoever he may be, is a dastardly 
wret(^h ! ” 

All this was clearly demonstrated, and 
De Breulh admitted it. 

“Now then,” he said, “what do you 
propose to do?” 

Andre’s eyes flashed fire. 

“ Nothing, just yet. Sabine asks me to 
forget her. 1 shall seem to do so. Mo- 
deste has confidence enough in me to serve 
me and hold her peace. I can wait. The 
wretch who thus wrecks my life does not 
even know of my existence. On this I 
ground my hope and my strength. I shall 
reveal my existence to him only on the 
day that I crush hi ii to the earth I ” 

“Take care, Andre!” murmured his 
friend; ‘"take care! The least outbreak 
will ruin your cause forever.” 

The young painter threw back his head 
haughtily. 

"‘There shall be no scandal, I assure 
you. At first I said to myself : ‘ As soon 
as I know who this man is I will go to 
him, insult him and then fight a duel with 
him, I will kill him or he me ! ’ ” 

“ It would have been the height of mad- 
ness. and would have i*endered your mar- 
riage an impossibility.” 

‘" Perhaps ; but that is not what holds 
me back. 1 do not choose that a dead body 
shall stand between me and Sabine. Blood 
on a marriage robe brings misery. Then, 
too, to cross swords with this man, if he be 
what I suspect, would be to do him too 
much honor. No, the vengeance I shall 
take will be better than that. I shall never 
forget that he nearly killed Sabine.” 

He was silent for a moment, and then 
broke the profound silence of the room by 
saying : 

‘" To abuse his power as he has done, 
shows him to be the vilest of men. And 


130 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


men do not reach such a height of infamy 
with one leap. His life must be full of 
shame and dishonor. I will make it my 
task to tear off’ his cloak, and I will hold 
him up to the contempt of the world ! ” 

‘‘ Yes, this is what ought to be done.” 

“ And we will do it, sir, God willing. I 
say " we,’ because I rely on you. Your 
generous offers in my studio I reimlsed — 
and I was right. But now, after the proofs 
of friendship you have given me, it is very 
different. I should be a proud fool if I did 
not entreat you for advice and assistance. 
We two, working together for a common 
cause, ought to succeed. We are neither 
of us so wedded to luxury that we are in- 
capable of going without sleep or food if 
necessary. You and I have each known 
two masters whose teachings are rarely 
forgotten — Poverty and Sorrow. W e can 
keep our own counsel, and act.” 

Andre waited, expecting some objection 
possibly, but as his friend did not speak 
he continued : 

My plan is simplicity itself. As soon 
as we know the man’s name, he is ours. 
He will not suspect us, and we will attach 
ourselves to him like his shadow. There 
are detectives who for a small sum under- 
take to discover the entire life of a man. 
Can it be that we have not as much pene- 
tration and judgment as these people? We 
two can manage this task wonderfully, 
for we can operate in such totally diff’erent 
spheres. You high up, and I low down. 
You in your world of clubs and salons can 
pick up information that I could never 
hope to gain. You will have the social, 
brilliant side of our enemy, I in the shade 
will study the inner side of his life ; I will 
trace out his past to his finest details. I 
can talk to the servants in the vestibule, 
to the coachmen in the wine shops. lAo 
one will suspect me; I am of the people, 
and my blouse and cap are no disguise.” 

Monsieur De Breulh started up in intense 
excitement. It was a great thing for him 
to find an object of such interest to fill up 
his empty life. 

He was to have a constant occupation, 
which should absorb the days he so often 
found endless and wearisome. 

‘‘Yes,” he exclaimed, “I am yours — 
entirely yours ! If you want money, any 
amount of money, remember that I am 
enormously rich ! ” 

The young painter had no time to an- 
swer, for a loud knock was heard at that 
moment on the library door. 

De Breulh frowned I 

“ Goutran, let me in quick ! ” cried a 
woman's voice. 

“It is Madame de Bois d’Ardon,” said 
De Breulh, hastily. 

He drew the bolt, and the vicomtesse, 
after her usual style, rushed like a whirl- 
wind into the room, and threw herself 
into a low chair. 

Then both her cousin and Andre saw 


that tears were in her lovely eyes, and that 
she was excessively agitated. 

Monsieur De Breulh had reason to be 
terrified, for the lady did not run the risk 
of spoiling her complexion by tears, ex- 
cept for some excellent reason. 

“ What is the trouble ? ’’ he asked, kindly. 

The greatest misfortune in the world,” 
she sobbed: “but you may be able to 
help me ” 

“Be sure of my willingness, Clotilde.” 

“Can you lend me twenty thousand 
francs? ” 

A load was taken from her cousin’s 
heart. He smiled. 

“ If that is all,” he said, “ dry your eyes, 
my fair cousin.” 

“ But I must have them this mo- 
ment ” 

“ Can you wait half an hour? ” 

“Yes, but make haste I ” 

De Breulh wrote ten lines, and gave 
them to a lacquey, with directions to go 
like the wind. 

“ Thanks ! ” cried the vicomtesse, “ in- 
finite thanks ! But the money is not all ; I 
want a little advice.” 

Supposing that the lady would like to 
be alone with her cousin, Andre rose to 
retire, but the lady stopped him with a 
friendly, gracious gesture. 

“Remain Monsieur Andre,” she said; 
“you are not de trop; besides, I wish to 
speak about a person in whom you take a 
great interest.” 

“ Of Mademoiselle de Mussidan, per- 
haps?” 

Precisely. And now I trust you will 
be willing to stay ! ” 

The voluble vicomtesse had never in all 
her life remained for five consecutive 
minutes in the same state of mind. She 
had come into the room in tears, but she 
forgot that and saw only the droll side 
of the situation. 

“ Upon my word,” she said, “ I never 
knew such an extraordinary adventure, 
my deur Goutran, as this to which you 
owe my visit. Such things never happen 
to any one but me, I do really believe ! ” 

This is a fixed belief of Madame de Bois 
d’Ardon's. She is persuaded that her life 
is one long succession of events peculiar 
to herself. 

“ I am listening to you, my dear Clo- 
tilde,” said her patient cousin. 

“And your time will not be thrown 
away. This morning, then, I was just 
going up-stairs to dress — it was very late, 
for I had had at least twenty visitors — 
but at that very moment, and it was two 
o’clock then, another came, and he was so 
close on the heels of the lacque}^ who an- 
nounced him that I could not deny my- 
self. Now, who do you think this person 
was? Guess!” 

“ I can't imagine! ” 

“ Well, then, it was the Marquis de 
Croisenois.” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


131 


“The brother of that Croisenois who 
disappeared so strangely twenty years 
agoV” 

“ Yes — exactly.” 

“ Is he one of your friends? ” 

“ No, indeed; 1 do not know him in the 
least. I meet him in society occasionally, 
but I do not remember ever dancing with 
him ; he bows to me in the Bois, and that 
is all.” 

“ And yet he calls on you as uncere- 
moniously as that?” 

With a pretty, threatening gesture the 
countess said : 

“You are spoiling all my points. Yes, 
he comes ‘ unceremoniously like that.’ 
He is very good-looking, and always well 
dressed, extremely agreeable, ai:d talks 
well. He came under the best possible 
auspices, he brought a letter from an old 
friend of your grandmother and mine — 
the Marquise d’Arlange.” 

“Not that Eccentric person who is the 
godmother of the young Countess de Com- 
marin? ” 

“ Yes, that is the one. But I delight in 
the old lady. She swears like a trooper, 
to be sure, and when she tells some of her 
youthful adventures she is — well, not to 
put too fine a point upon it — she is epa- 
tante ! ” 

This last word caused Andre to nearly 
leap from his chair. He was very inno- 
cent. He knew no woman belonging to 
the aristocracy except Sabine, and he 
sometimes thought them all to resemble 
in some degree his most perfect model. 
He was not avvare that just at that time 
the young women of fashion — those, too, 
who were really good and pure — took the 
greatest pains to afiect the worst possible 
tone. They seemed to fancy that they 
thus proved their freedom from prejudice, 
and their cleverness; to interlard their 
conversation with all the slang they could 
gather from the lips of husbands and 
brothers delighted them be 5 mnd expres- 
sion. ^ To resemble as much as possible 
the disreputable women whom they called 
“horrors,” but whose toilettes they eagerlj’^ 
imitated, seemed to be their end and aim, 
and Madame de Bois d’Ardon told with 
pride how she had been, two or three 
times in her life, taken for one of this 
class. This was a proof of her high 
fashion. 

In the meantime, she had talked on. 

“In the letter Monsieur de Croisenois 
brought me, the Marquise d’Arlange said 
that he was one of her friends, and begged 
me to grant him, for her sake, the favor 
hie was about to ask.” 

“ Why did she not come with him?” 

“Because she is kept in her bed by 
rheumatism. Of course I told him to take 
a chair, and assured him that if in any way 
1 could serve him, I would do so. He 
then told me a story about Monsieur de 
Clinchan and an actress at the Varieties 


which was delicious. I was extremely 
amused, when all at once I heard a dispute 
in the vestibule. I rang to ascertain what 
it meant, when suddenly the door opened, 
and in came Van Klopen with a very red 
face ” 

“Van -Klopen?” 

“ Yes, don't you know? Van Klopen, the 
man that makes dresses. I said to myself, 
" He has come here in this way because he 
has just invented something especially chic^ 
and wishes to submit it to me.’ But do 
you know what the rascal wanted? ” 

Monsieur de Breulh did not laugh, but 
there was a twinkle in his eye. 

“ Possibly it was money.” 

The vicomtesse looked astounded at this 
brilliancy. 

“ You are right,” she answered, gravely. 
“ He brought my bill himself into my 
salon, and presented it to me before a 
stranger. He had forced his way in spite 
of the opposition of my servants. Never 
would I have supposed that Van Klopen, 
who is employed by the very best people, 
could have been guilty of such a piece of 
impudence.” 

“It is most extraordinary,” answered 
her cousin, indignantly. “I ordered him 
to leave the room. I "took it for grant d 
that he would obey and apologize. But I 
was greatly mistaken. The fellow got 
angry, threatened me, and declared if I 
did not pay him at once that he would go 
to my husband.” 

Monsieur de Bois d’Ardon is the most 
generous of men; he gives his wife a 
monthly sum for her toilette, which ought 
to cover all her expenses. He allows no 
debts, as Monsieur de Breulh well knew. 

“ Was the bill a heavy one?” 

He had brought it up to nineteen thou- 
sand, and as many hundred francs. Imagine 
my horror when I saw it. It was so enor- 
mous that I humbly entreated Van K open 
to be patient, and promised him to call dur- 
ing the day and pay him a certain sum on 
account. But my evident terror increased 
his audacity, and he seated himself in an 
arm-chair and declared that there he would 
remain until I gave him the money or he 
had seen my husband.’' 

Monsieur de Breulh by this time was in 
a furious rage. 

*’ What did Croisenois do all this time?” 
he cried. 

“ Nothing, at first, but at this last inso- 
lence he rose, drew out a pocket-book and 
threw it in Van Klopen’s face, saying, at 
the same time : 

“ Pay yourself, villain, and be off* with 
you ! ’’ 

-‘And then he went away ” 

“No, indeed. ‘ I must give you a re- 
ceipt,’ he said, turning to the marquis; 
and h ‘ pulled writing materials out of his 
pocket, and put at the bottom of the bill : 

-‘‘Received from Monsieur de Croise- 
nois, on account of Madame la Vicom- 


132 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS, 


tesse de Bois d’Ardon, the sum of, etc., 
etc.’ ” 

‘‘ Oh ! ” said Monsieur de Breulh — and 
then came two more oh's each in a differ- 
ent tone. ‘‘ I suppose after the departure of 
Van Klopen, that Monsieur de Croisenois 
no longer hesitated to ask that favor for 
which he had come? ” 

The vicorntesse shook her head. 

“No, you are mistaken. I had the 
greatest difficulty in making him speak; 
but at last he acknowledged that he was 
desperately in love with Mademoiselle de 
Mussidan; and he bagged me to present 
him to her father, and use all my influence 
in his behalf.” 

Andre and Monsieur de Breulh started 
as if stung by the same lash. 

“ It is he! ” they exclaimed. 

Their movements were so abrupt and 
threatening that the lady uttered a little 
cry of surprise. 

“It is he ! ” she repeated, looking from 
one to the other. “ What on earth do you 
mean?” 

“ That your Marquis de Croisenois is a 
wretch, who has imposed on Madame d’Ar- 
lange.” 

“ Very possibly ; but ” 

. “ Listen, Clotilde ; listen to our reasons.” 

And immediately her cousin, with ex- 
treme vivacity, laid before the vicointeS'e 
the entire situation ; showed her poor Sa- 
bine’s letter, and repeated almost word for 
word Andre’s deductions. 

Clotilde must have been deeply inter- 
ested, for she never once interrupted him. 
She gave an occasional nod of the head, 
but that was all. 

When De Breulh had finished, she, with 
a wise little air that was very bewitching, 
said ; 

“ Your reasoning is all good, except that 
you start wrong. Let me have the floor 
now. You say there is a mysterious suitor. 
If he obtains" Sabine’s hand how will he 
have done it? Through some mysterious 
power he exercises over the count and the 
countess — to threats, in short.” 

“ Of course ; that is clear to any one.” 

“ To be sure; but, my dear Goutran, it 
is clear that the unknown must have some 
sort of relations with the family he threat- 
ens — utter strangers could not exercise 
this power, you know. Now, Monsieur 
de Croisenois has never put his foot in the 
Hotel de Mussidan — he knows Octave so 
little that he came to ask me to present 
him.” 

So specious and peremptory was this ob- 
servation that De Breulh was silent. 

“You are right,” he said, under his 
breath. 

But Andre was not easily diverted from 
the scent. 

“I admit,” he said, “that this seems at 
the first glance to destroy our theory. 
But I suspect that all is not as it seems, and 
the more I reflect on the extraordinary 


scene described by the vicorntesse the more 
confirmed are my suspicions. Allow me 
to ask a few questions. Did not this Van 
Klopen's proceedings strike you as very 
odd?” 

“Monstrous, sir — revolting! unheard 
of!” 

“ Are you not one of his best custom- 
ers? ” 

“ Yes ; and I have spent a fortune in his 
establishment.” 

Andre looked pleased. 

“But,” interrupted De Breulh, “it is 
not so very strange after all in Van Klo- 
pen. Did he not bring an action against 
Madame de Reversay? ” 

“That may be; but we have yet to 
learn,” said Andre, “ that he pushed his 
way into her salon and presented liis bill 
before a stranger, and then seated him- 
self.” 

“ And we have yet to learn,” urged the 
vicorntesse, “ that she paid him seventeen 
thousand francs on account last month.” 

“ Do you know Monsieur de Croise- 
nois?” asked Andre, turning to Monsieur 
de Breulh. 

“ Oh ! very little. He belongs to an ex- 
cellent family I know, and also that his 
elder brother George was highlj’’ esteemed 
by all who knew him.” 

“ Is he rich?” 

“I fancy not; but some day he will 
come in possession of a large fortune. In 
the meantime he probably has more debts 
than income.” 

“ And yet he happened to have twenty 
thousand francs in his pocket. That is 
rather a large sum for a man to carry 
about him when he pays a moi ning visit ; 
and then, too, it is rather odd that it should 
have happened to be precisely the neces- 
sary sum.” 

Andre was stunned. He spoke in a 
quick, imperative tone and manner. 

“Then, too, there is another strange 
thing. Madame has said that Van Klopen 
received the pocket-book full in his face. 
Did he say nothing?” 

“Not a word.” 

“He accepted the insult without a 
wink? He did not even ask this stranger 
why he meddled in the matter? ” 

“ I did not think of it at the time, but it 
was very odd ” 

“ One moment, if you please. Did Van 
Klopen open the pocket-book and count 
the notes before he wrote the receipt? ” 

Madame de Bois d’Ardon frowned, and 
seemed to make an urgent appeal to her 
memory. 

“I am not certain,” she said hesitat- 
ingly. “You know that I was naturally 
much disturbed and troubled; but I feel 
almost sure that I never saw the notes in 
Van Klopen’s hands. 

Andre’s face was radiant. 

“Better and better!” he exclaimed. 
“ He was told to pay himself, but he did 


THE 8LAVE8 OF PABI8. 


133 


not look to see how much was in the 
pocket-book. He pocketed it, and gave a 
receipt. Let us take notice, too, of the 
fact that Monsieur de Croisenois had 
neither card nor letter in this pocket-book. 
Nothing, in fact, but the sum of twenty 
thousand francs, which sum was precisely 
what was needed.” 

It does not seem altogether natural,” 
murmured De Breulh. 

‘‘No; I have made a mistake,” said 
Andre, hastily. “Your bill was not 
twenty thousand francs precisely.” 

“ No,” answered the lady. “Van 
Klopen should have given back a hun- 
dred and thirty or a hundred and fifty 
francs — something like that.” 

“And he did not?” 

“ No ; but then he was so much excited.” 

“Do you think so, madame? And yet 
he was able to remember that he had 
writing materials in his pocket, and re- 
member to give a receipt.” 

The vicomtesse was dumbfounded. It 
seemed to her that a thick fog had been 
before her eyes, and was now clearing 
away. 

“Then,” continued Andre, “Van Klo- 
pen wrote the receipt, but how did he 
know De Croisenois's name? How did 
he know this stranger unless he had seen 
him before? And now, one more ques- 
tion : What has become of this re- 
ceipted ” 

He suddenly stopped. Madame de Bois 
d’Ardon had turned very pale, and was 
trembling violently. 

“Ah!” she said, “I felt all the time 
that some terrible misfortune was about to 
overtake me. It was on this very point 
that I wanted to speak to you, Goutran, 
and ask your advice.” 

“ Go on, Clotilde.” 

“ Well, you see, I have not got this bill. 
Monsieur de Croisenois crushed it in his 
hand and threw it down on the table ; but 
afterward he picked it up mechanically, 
and put it in his pocket.” 

Andre was triumphant. 

^ “ The game is clear,” he said. “ Mon- 
sieur de Croisenois needed your influence, 
madame; he saw that he could not buy it. 
Admit, however, that you would have felt 
obliged to do what he asked, on account of 
these twenty thousand francs so gener- 
ously lent to you by him in an hour of 
great necessity.” 

“Yes, jrou are right ! ” 

Many times in her life the amiable 
vicomtesse had risked her name, her repu- 
tation, her happiness and her husband’s, 
for some mere caprice — or through indo- 
lence. She had had more than one terrible 
fright, but never one as terrible as this. 

“Good heavens!” she cried, “why do 
you alarm me in this way? It is not gen- 
erous. What do you suppose Monsieur de 
Croisenois could possiby do with this 
receipt?” 


What could he do with it? She knew 
only too well, and yet through a weakness, 
which is as inconceivable as it is common, 
she refused, so to speak, to recognize the 
danger, or even to admit that there was 
any. 

“ He will do nothing,” interrupted her 
cousin, “nothing, if you embrace his 
cause warmly ; but hesitate for a moment, 
and he will quickly show you that you 
have no choice in the matter: that you 
must be his ally, as he holds your honor in 
his hands.” 

“ And, unfortunately,” added Andre, 
“ a woman's reputation has always been, 
and always will be, at the mercy of a fool 
or a knave ! ” 

The vicomtesse again cried out at this. 

“No! no!” she said, in the tones of a 
child who has just been frightened by its 
nurse with a frightful hobgoblin tale. 
“ You are alarmed at a shadow.” 

“And why?’' answered her cousin, 
sadly. “You are by no means ignorant 
of the fact that in these days of luxurious 
and extravagant toilettes, there are 
women of fashion thoroughly corrupt 
in their hearts and their lives, who ruin 
their lovers quite as adroitly as a class 
of whom I do not care to speak. To-mor- 
row, at the club, De Croisenois may say : 
‘That little Bois d’Ardon costs me an 
ocean of money!’ Then he shows your 
bill of twenty thousand francs receipted 
to him. What will be the conclusion, 
then?” 

‘•People will do me the honor to be- 
lieve ” 

“No, people will do you no honor 
whatever, Clotilde. Who the deuce would 
believe it to be a loan? They will simply 
say : ‘ That little vicomtesse is a terrible 
coquette. The money her husband gives 
her is not enough, and she is devouring 
poor Croisenois.’ And every man in the 
club will laugh knowingly. You know 
that. And you know of just such things 
every day of your life. And a little 
later, the story will reach your husband’s 
ears, enlivened and embellished.” 

The poor vicomtesse wrung her hand 
in despair. 

“It is terrible!” she sobbed. “And 
do you know, that Bois d’Ardon would 
believe the worst. He declares that a 
woman like myself, who sets the fashion 
in the matter of toilettes, is capable of 
anything to preserve the pre-eminence 
which is the despair of the other women. 
Yes, he has often said just that.” 

The silence of the two men told Clotilde 
that they agreed with her husband. 

“This mania for dress has been my 
destruction,” she added. “ I ought to 
be the happiest of women, and should 
be but for that. Never ! no, never will I 
have another bill anywhere ! ” 

“ Madame de Bois d’Ardon never failed 
to announce this same heroic resolution 


134 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


after each enormous bill wa§ sent in, but 
the oaths of a woman of fashion and those 
of a drunken man have an amazing simi- 
larity, and she quickly forgets her period- 
ical repentance. 

Tell me, dear Goutran, what I had best 
do? You will help me, I am sure. Can’t 
you ask De Croiseiiois for that wretched 
bill?” 

Monsieur de Breulh hesitated. 

“ I can, of course, but such a step would 
do you harm rather than good. I have no 
decisive proofs against him, you know. 
And if he is the man I believe, he will deny 
ever 3 dhing. To go to him, would be to 
show him that you have penetrated his de- 
signs, and you will make him your enemy 
for life.” 

And,” added Andre, if you should do 
this, you would put the man on his guard, 
and he would escape us.” 

The unfortunate vicomtesse looked from 
one to the other in despair. 

‘‘Am I utterly lost, then?” she cried, 
amid her tears; “ am I to remain all my 
life in the power of this odious being, con- 
demned even to obey him, and trembling 
under his look like a slave under the 
lash?” 

But Andre came to the rescue. 

“No,madame,” he answered, “reassure 
yourself. I shall be able ere long, I think, 
to reduce Monsieur de Croisenois to a po- 
sition where he can injure no one. One 
more question. What did you say when 
he asked you to present him at the Hotel 
de Mussidan?” 

“ Nothing positive, for I thought of you 
and Sabine.” 

“ Then, madame, sleep in peace to-night. 
So long as he hopes to make you useful, 
just so long will he take care not to annoy 
you. Serve him then, say not one word 
of the bill, show him all esteem and friend- 
ship, open the Hotel de Mussidan for him, 
and sing his praises.” 

“ But you, sir?” 

“1, madame, aided by Monsieur de 
Breulh, will toil to unmask this scoundrel. 
And the more secure he believes himself 
to be, the easier is our task.” 

He was here interrupted by the servant 
who had been sent by De Breulh to cash 
his check. 

When the lacquey had left the room, his 
master took the notes and placed them in 
his cousin’s hands. 

“Here, my dear Clotilde, is the money 
for De Croisenois. Take my advice and 
send it to him this evening with the most 
gracious note.” 

“ Thanks, Goutran. I will do precisely 
as you say.” 

“ And do not fail to slip into your letter 
a word of hope in regard to the presenta- 
tion. What do you say, Andre?” 

But Andre was buried in thought. 

“I think,” he' answered finally, “that 
if a receipt from Croisenois could be ob- 


tained for this sum that it would be some- 
thing gained.” 

“ Are you jesting? ” 

“ By no means.” 

“But the mere request would awaken 
the rascal's suspicions.” 

“ Possibly,” answered the young painter. 

“ And yet ” He turned hastily toward 

the vicomtesse. “ Do you h ippen to have 
in your employment, madame, any maid 
on whom you can rely?” 

“ I have one as true as gold and sharp 
as steel.” 

“Very well. Then give that girl the 
letter and the package of bills separately. 
Drill her thoroughly. When she sees De 
Croisenois let her pretend to be terrified at 
the large amount of money with which 
she has been entrusted. Tell her to make 
a great fuss, and finally to insist on a re- 
ceipt which shall relieve her of any re- 
sponsibility.” 

“ That sounds feasible, certainly,” said 
De Breulh. 

“And she will do it,” exclaimed the 
vicomtesse, eagerly. “ Josephine has not 
her equal for playing such a farce.” 

And at the idea of the farce and the 
maneuver a smile spread over the face of 
the pretty vicomtesse. Her anxiety was 
gone ; she felt that she was under the pro- 
tection of these two men. 

“Trust to me,” she said, “to keep 
Croisenois in good humor. In a fortnight 
I will be his confidante, and all that he 
tells me you will know.” 

She clenched her pretty little fist with a 
threatening gesture. 

“ It is fair enough,” she continued. 
“ Why did he come near me? As for Van 
Klopen, what on earth 1 am to do without 
him. Heaven’ only knows. Where am I to 
turn? There is not another man in Paris 
with his originality, or who can dress me 
with his chic, I am in despair ! ” And 
the vicomtesse rose to leave. “I am utterly 
tired out,” she said, plaintively. “Pour 
friends, too, of my husband’s dine with 
us to-day. Adieu, or rather, au revoir,'^'^ 

And light-hearted and smiling as ever 
she hurried to her carriage. 

“ And such are the women of to-day, 
cousin,” sighed he; “and if one comes 
across one with a vestige of a heart, she 
is without brains.” 

But Andre was too much engrossed with 
his fixed idea to make any reply to this 
observation. 

“Now,” he exclaimed, “Croisenois is 
under our heels, we know where to start 
from. He holds Madame de Mussidan 
precisely as he holds your cousin. We 
know this honorable gentleman’s ways of 
working. He robs you of your secrets, 
and blackmails you afterwards.” 

“ But we are ahead of him. He will 
make nothing out of Monsieur de Mus- 
sidan. 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


135 


CHAPTER XXV. 

To be the sole proprietor and master of 
a most comfortable home, to be surrounded 
by all the luxuries and selfish enjoyments 
known to a bachelon and then to be sud- 
denly dispossessed of them, is not a very 
agreeable thing. 

In fact, can one imagine a more uncom- 
fortable penance? But this was precisely 
what Dr. Hortebise was now compelled to 
submit to, when Tantaine, in Mascarot's 
name, came to demand hospitality for 
Paul Violaine. 

This amiable epicurean shuddered and 
grew pale at the mere thought of this 
invasion. 

To show his rooms, or to have them in- 
vaded by a sherhf s oflicer, struck him as 
about the same thing. He saw a sombre 
picture outspread before him of his disor- 
ganized life — his personal habits broken 
up and intruded upon, his pet tastes out- 
raged, and his liberty compromised. 

What on earth should he do with this 
youth quartered upon him in this way, 
and for this uncertain length of time? 
How could he endure to have him always 
before him, and seated opposite him at 
table, and hanging to his coat when lie 
went out, like a child to the skirts of his 
nurse? 

No more delightful restaurant dinners 
in the society of appreciative companions 
— no more of those mysterious visitors 
which be received in the evening with 
lowered lights and curtains closely drawn 
after all his servants had been sent to the 
theatre. 

Therefore he devoutly wished that the 
earth would open and swallow the honora- 
ble Mascarot and his protege. 

But the idea never entered his head of 
evading the imperative mandate. Initiated 
as he was in the projects of B. Mascarot, 
he felt that to watch Paul for a few days 
was of the very first importance. The 
boy must be, as it were, made over ; he 
must learn, too, that his past was a fath- 
omless abyss into which he must never 
even look. 

Was it not indispensable, moreover, that 
Paul should be gradually prepared to hear 
the truth? His conscience must be hard- 
ened to resist the stings which poss.bly, 
but by no means probably, would assail 
him at the last moment. 

The doctor, therefore, resigned himself 
with a deep sigh to the task before him. 

Paul found in him the most agreeable of 
companions, clever and witty, with an in- 
exhaustible fund of anecdotes. Hortebise 
was a facile counsellor, and preached only 
a very mild morality, and an unscrupulous 
philosophy. For five da5^s they were to- 
gether, breakfasting at the best restau- 
rants, driving in the Bois, and dining at 
the doctor’s club. 

The evenings were regularly passed at 


Monsieur Martin Regal’s. The doctor 
played cards with the banker, and Paul 
and Flavia talked apart in low voices, or 
there was music. 

But nothing lasts in this world. On the 
fifth day of this agreeable existence, Tan- 
taine appeared and announced that he had 
come for Paul and his luggage. 

I have arranged for you,” he said 
gayly, ‘‘the most charming little retreat 
in the world. It is not, to be sure, as fine 
as this is here, but it is in accordance with 
your position.” 

“ Where is it?” 

Tantaine smiled knowingly. 

‘‘ Having an eye to the preservation of 
your shoe-leather,” he answered, “I se- 
cured rooms for you very near Monsieur 
Martin Regal’s.” 

The old man was without his equal in 
all such matters. He knew everything and 
everybody, and foresaw every emergency 
and contingency. Paul realized this at 
his first glance on his new home. 

It was in the Rue Montmartre, nearly at 
the corner of the Rue Joquelet that Tan- 
taine had found such rooms as he required, 
modest rooms, such as an artist who had 
conquered his first difiiculties, and saw a 
future opening before him, would feel jus- 
tified in enjoying. 

The apartments on the third fioor con- 
sisted of a small vestibule, two pretty 
rooms, and a good-sized dressing cabinet. 
One of these was a bedroom, the other wa& 
arranged as a library, but near the window 
stood a piano. 

Furniture, curtains, and hangings were 
all pretiy and clean, but nothing was new. 

One peculiarity struck Paul. 

Til is apartment which, he was told, was 
hired and furnished for him, only three 
days before, was palpitating with life. 
One would have sworn that its owner had 
stepped out for a minute on y. 

The bed looked as if it were still warm, 
and two candles, half burned down, added 
to the impression. By the side of the bed 
were slippers that had been worn. The 
fire was not quite out, and on the mantel 
was the end of a cigar, while on the table 
in the library was a sheet of music paper 
with a few bars written down. The sen- 
sation of being in another person’s room 
was so strong, that Paul exclaimed : 

“ But, sir, this apartment is inhabited 
already ” 

“We are in your home, my dear boy.” 

“ But you bought everything as it stood, 
and the owner simply walked out.” 

Tantaine seemed to be as delighted as a 
school-boy who has played some practical 
joke. 

“For a whole year,” he said, “you 
have been the sole proprietor of this 
apartment. Do you not know your own 
home?” 

Paul listened with his mouth wide open, 
studying a mystery. 


136 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


“ I do not understand,” he said, finally. 
“You are jesting, I presume.” 

“ I was never more entirely in earnest. 
For more than a year your Lares and Pen- 
ates have been established here. Will 
you have a proof of what I say? ” 

He ran to the head of the stairs without 
waiting for a reply, and shouted out : 

Mother Bregot! Come up, if you 
please.” 

Then turning to Paul : 

“ The concierge is coming,” he said. 

At the same moment an old woman, 
repulsive from her obesity, with a very red 
nose and an obsequious air, to which 
the expression of her eyes, half hidden 
by heavy grey eyebrows, gave the lie, 
entered the room. 

“ Good-morning, Mother Bregot,” said 
Tantaine, gayly. “ I wanted to speak to 
you a moment.” 

“ All rigat, sir.” 

Tantaine pointed to Paul. 

“ You know this gentleman, do you?” 

“What a question — do I know one 
of our tenants?” 

“ What is his name? ” 

“ Paul.” 

“ Nothing more?” 

“ Well sir, he is generally called Paul, 
and nothing else. It is not his fault if 
he never knew his father nor mother.” 

“ What is his profession? ” 

“He is an artist. He gives lessons on 
the piano, composes and copies music.” 

“ What does he make in this way?” 

“You ask me too much, sir, but I 
should say that it ought to be three or 
four hundred francs per month.” 

“ And this sum is enough for him? ” 

“ Oh, yes; but then he is so economical 
and sensible, and well-behaved! A regu- 
lar girl — at least, if 1 had a girl, I should 
like her to resemble him. He works hard, 
and is always neat and well dressed.” 

She drew out her snuff box, and took 
a copious pinch, and then in a tone of pro- 
found conviction, added : 

“ He is good-looking, too.” 

Tantaine’s face beamed good-naturedly. 

“You seem to have known Monsieur 
Paul a long time, as you are so well in- 
formed of his affairs.” 

“ I should think that T might know some- 
thing about him and his business, as it 
is nearly fifteen months that he has lived 
here, and I have attended to his rooms all 
that time.” 

“Do you know where he lived before he 
came here?” 

“ Of course I do, for I went to find out 
about him, and he lived in the Rue Jacob, 
on the other side of the water. The peo- 
ple over there were sorry to have him 
leave, too, but he had to' be nearer his 
work at the library in the Rue Richelieu.” 

Tantaine lifted his finger. 

“That will do. Mother Bregot; now 
leave me alone with this gentleman.” 


Paul had listened to these most extraor- 
dinary interrogations and replies with the 
air of a man who does not know whether 
he is asleep or awake, whether he sees or 
dreams. Tantaine stood at the door until 
the heavy steps of the concierge were lost 
in the distance ; then he closed it carefully, 
and, laughing heartily, came back to the 
side of his protege. 

“What have you to say to this?” he 
asked. 

It took Paul a good two minutes to re- 
cover his powers of speech. He struggled 
to collect his ideas. He remembered the 
words addressed to him by Dr. Hortebise 
a dozen times within the last five da 5 ’^s: 
“ Be astonished at nothing, but expect the 
most extraordinary events. Be prepared.” 
He really preserved his self-possession 
wonderfully under this first attack. 

“ I suppose, sir,” he said finally, “ that 
you told this woman what to say.” 

The old man shrugged his shoulders in 
evident despair and disappointment, at 
this reply. 

“ Merciful heavens ! ” he replied with a 
withering contempt which he took no 
pains to conceal. “ If this is all you un- 
derstand from the scene you have just 
witnessed we are far enough from the 
point we desire to reach.” 

This tone piqued the restless vanity of 
Mascarot's pi otege. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, sulkily, 
“ I understand that this scene is a preface 
to a romance.” 

These words delighted Tantaine’s very 
soul. 

“Yes, my boy,” he cried, enthusiasti- 
cally, “ yes; but it is also an indispensable 
preface. The romance will be revealed to 
you when the propitious moment arrives, 
and you will understand what success 
awaits you if you will play your part with 
skill.” 

“ Why not tell me now? ” 

Tantaine shook his head gently. 

“Patience!” he said, “ patience! im- 
petuous youth. Paris was not built in a 
day. Let yourself be guided — oh, my 
son, let us fit the burden to your strength, 
and yield yourself without fear to 3 mur 
protectors. To-day you have received 
your first lesson. Now think it over.” 

“ My first lesson?” 

“ Call it a rehearsal, my child, if you 
choose. I preferred to put what I had to 
tell you into the mouth of another, or 
rather into action, as it were, hoping thus 
to engrave it more deeply on your mind 
and memory.” 

This was clear enough. There was nei- 
ther doubt, hesitation, nor equivocation. 

“All that this good woman said,” con- 
tinued the bland Tantaine. speaking very 
slowly, as if to give greater weight to 
his words, “all that she told you you 
must look upon as true. It is true. 
When you have so persuaded your- 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


137 


self you are then ready for the battle. 
Until then you must rest on your arms, 
Remember this, no one impresses an- 
other with a truth which he himself 
doubts. There has never been a single 
impostor of any celebrity who was not 
his own first dupe.” • 

At this word ‘‘impostor,” Mascarot’s 
protege started and tried to speak, but 
with a calm wave of his hand Tantaine 
enjoined silence. 

One of my friends,” he said, “ lived 
on terms of great intimacy with a false 
Louis XVII., and he related to me a 
quantity of the details of his life. This 
boy, who was the son of a shoemaker in 
Amiens, was so perfectly successful in 
assuming the personality of the young 
king that, coming by accident into the 
presence of a girl of his town, whom 
he bad once dearly loved, he actually 
did not recognize her.” 

“Oh I” interrupted Paul, “that could 
never be.” 

“ I tell you he did not recognize her. 
Now see what perfection you can attain in 
this line. Do not smile, the matter is 
serious enough, I do assure you. You 
must, as it were, cast your own skin 
and slip into that of another man. Paul 
Violaine — the illegitimate son of a woman 
who kept a thread-and-needle store in 
Poitiers — the too artless lover of Rose 

— no longer exists. He died of starvation 
in a garret in the Hotel du Peron, as 
Madame Loupias will prove when needed.” 

Tantaine. was in deadly earnest, as it 
was plain to see. He had torn off his 
mask of jesting joviality, and it was in 
brief, decided words that he drove his 
ideas into the torpid brain of his auditor. 

“You will get rid of your old self as 
you would of a worn-out garment, which 
you toss aside and forget. And I do 
not order you to lose your individuality 
only, but also your memory, so entirely 
that if some one calls to you in the street, 
‘Violaine!’ you would never dream of 
turning around.” 

Prepared as Paul had been for this 
lesson, he felt his reason wavering like 
a candle in the wind. 

“ Who am I, then? ” he stammered. 

Tantaine smiled sardonically. 

“ The concierge told you. You are Paul 

— Paul nothing. You were brought up 
at the Enfants-Trouves, and never knew 
your parents. You have lived here fif- 
teen months, and last year you were in 
the Rue Jacob. Your concierge knows no 
more. But you go with me to the Rue 
Jacob. They will know you there,* and 
they will tell you where you lived when 
with them. Perhaps, after a time, if we 
are diligent and watchful, we may be able 
to carry you back to your childhood, 
and ev<*n find a father for you I ” 

Paul looked up quickly. 

“But suppose I should be questioned in 


regard to my past life? That might 
easily happen, you know. Suppose Mon- 
sieur Martin Regal or Mademoiselle Flavia 
should interrogate me? ” 

“ Ah, ha I Now I understand. Do not 
be concerned, however. You will have 
documents so explicit and so precise that 
if they require it you can give them the 
history of every hour, so to speak, of the 
twenty-three years you have lived in this 
world.” 

“ Then, sir, I presume the person whose 
place I take was a musician and composer 
like myself.” 

Tantaine by this time was utterly out of 
patience, and he swore a mighty oath. 

“Are you playing the part of a simple- 
ton,” he said, “ or are you one in reality? 
Have I told you that you took any one’s 
place? Why do you talk in this way? 
No one but you has ever been here. Did 
you not hear the concierge? ” 

“Yes; but ” 

“Heavens and earth! She told you 
that you were an artist. You are a self- 
made man ; and while waiting until jour 
abilities as a composer are duly recognized, 
you give lessons.” 

“ And to whom? ” 

Tantaine turned to a bowl on the mantel 
and took out three visiting cards. 

“ Here are the names and addresses of 
three pupils of yours, who will each give 
you one hundred francs per month for two 
lessons weekly. These two will assure 
you, if you doubt it, that you have been 
their teacher for a long time. The third, 
Madame Grandorge, a widow, will swear 
that to your lessons she owes all her suc- 
cess, which is by no means small. To- 
morrow you will call on these pupils at 
the hour inscribed on their cards. You 
will be received as if you were an habitue 
of the house, and you will try to be as 
much at ease as if this were the case.” 

“I will endeavor to obey you.” 

“ One word more. In addition to your 
lessons, and to augment your earnings, 
you copy at the library for rich amateurs 
fragments of old unpublished operas. On 
the piano lies the work you are now doing 
for the Marquis de Croisenois — a charm- 
ing work by Valserra, ‘ I tredili misiJ* ” 

Tantaine took Paul’s arm, and took him 
around the room. 

“ You see,” he said, “ that nothing has 
been forgotten — any one would have sup- 
posed you to have lived here a century. 
As a young man who has always led a reg- 
ular sort of life, you have, of course, made 
your little economies, the result of which 
is in that drawer, in the shape of eight cer- 
tificates of bank stock, and a million 
francs.” 

Questions innumerable surged to Paul’s 
lips, but his companion was already on the 
threshold, and only delayed to say : 

“I will come back to-morrow with the 
doctor.” 


138 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


Then addressing to his pupil a sarcasti- 
cally deferential good-hye, he added, as 
Mascarot had done : ‘‘ You will be a duke 
yet.” 

The concierge, Mother Bregot, lay in 
wait for Tantaine. As soon as she saw him 
coining slowly down the stairs, with his 
head bowed as if by serious thoughts, she 
ran towards him as quickly as her many 
pounds would permit. 

“How did I do it. Father Tantaine?” 
she asked. 

“ Hush ! ” he answered, roughly pushing 
her into her room, the door of which stood 
open. “ Hush! Are you mad to talk out 
here at the risk of being heard by the first 
chance comer? ” 

He appeared so furiously angry that the 
concierge bowed her head before his just 
reproach. 

“ I hoped,” she stammered, “ that I had 
pleased you by my replies.” 

“You did well. Mother Bregot, very 
well. You grasped the idea perfectly. 1 
shall have a good report to make of you to 
Monsieur Mascarot.” 

“ I am glad of that ! And now Bregot 
and I are safe.” 

The old man shook his head doubtfully. 

“ Safe! ” he answered. “ Well, I don’t 
know about that yet. The master has a 
long arm, to be sure, but you hav§ enemies 
— many enemies. All the servants in the 
house execrate you, and they would be ' 
only too well pleased — of that I am sure 
— if you were to get into trouble.” 

“Oh, sir! is that really so? I do not 
understand, for we, both my husband and 
myself, have been very good to them all.” 

“ You are good to them just now, possi- 
bly, because you wish to turn them over 
to your side; but in former days, you 
know it was very different. You were 
very foolish, you and your husband both. 
The law admits of no evasion — Article 
386, paragraph 3 — and 5 mur weak point 
is, that jmii were seen with the bunch of 
keys in your hands, by the two women on 
the second floor.” 

The stout woman turned very pale. She 
clasped her hands and said, in entreating 
tones : 

“ Speak lower, sir — I entreat of you — 
lower ! ” 

“The great mistake you made was in 
not coming to consult my master earlier. 
There had already been considerable gos- 
sip, and the police had got an inkling of 
the affair.” 

“Yes, but if Monsieur Mascarot pleased 

______ 5 ? 

“ He does please, my good woman, and 
asks nothing better than to serve you. 1 
am quite sure that he will succeed in sup- 
pressing the inquiry, or if that must go 
on, he has secured several witnesses in 
your favor. Only, you know, he expects 
service for service, and he must be obeyed 
implicitly.” 


“ The dear, good man ! We would pass 
through fire and water for him, Bregot 
and I, while my daughter Euphemie would 
do anything in the world for him.” 

The old man started back, for the wo- 
man, in the enthusiasm of her gratitude, 
looked as if she was about to throw her- 
self on his neck. 

“ The master does not care much about 
this fire and water business, he only asks 
that you shall never vary a hair’s breadth 
in your statements about Paul. He ex- 
pects absolute discretion. If you ever 
breathe one word of this great secret 
which has been confided to you, he will 
give you up to justice, and then, as I told 
you, Article 386 ” 

It was evident that each allusion to this 
article, which announces the penalties in- 
flicted on servants who rob their employ- 
ers, struck terror to the soul of this wo- 
man. 

“ If my head were under the axe,” she 
murmured, “ I would reiterate to the last 
gasp that Monsieur Paul has been my 
lodger for a year, that he is an artist, and 
all the rest of it. As to breathing one 
word of all you tell me, I would sooner 
cut my tongue out. Now do you believe 
me?” 

The poor woman’s tone was so earnest 
and sincere that Tantaine recovered his 
usual tranquillity. 

' “ Keep to your word,” he said, “ and I 

am authorized to say to jmu, hope. Yes, 
the day that our young man’s affairs are 
happily settled, you will receive from me 
a little paper, which will make you as 
white as the driven snow, and will permit 
you to say to any one that you have been 
calumniated.” 

This was an absolute bargain, and 
Mother Bregot must have so understood it. 

May the dear fellow succeed quickly ! ” 
she said. 

“It will not be very long, I assure you. 
But you must not forget that in the mean- 
time you must not take your eyes off* him 
for a moment ” 

“ I will not forget.” 

“And no matter who comes, I am to 
know it at once — boy or woman, man or 
servant. Nothing is too trivial for you to 
report to me.” 

“No one can go up stairs without my 
both seeing and hearing him.” 

“ And if any one appears except the 
master. Dr. Hortebise, and I, you are to 
come without thedoss of an hour.” 

“I will let you know in five minutes.” 

Tantaine thought for a mo'ment. 

“I wonder if this is all I had to say? 
Ah ! I remember. Keep an exact account 
of the hours kept by this young gentle- 
man; what time he comes in. Have no 
conversation with him; answer no ques- 
tions he addresses to you beyond a simple 
‘ No ’ and ‘ Yes,’ and, as I said before, 
watch his every movement.” 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


139 


Tantaine turned to go away, paying no 
attention to the zealous protestations of 
the concierge. 

‘‘Watch! watch!” were his last words, 

Above all, look out that the youth does 
not make a fool of himself in any way.” 

This last caution was for the time en- 
tirely unnecessary. 

While Paul had been under the eye 
of Tantaine, he had from vanity pretended 
to be unmoved by the strange position 
in which he found himself ; but as soon as 
he was alone, he sank into a chair, over- 
powered by such mortal terror that he 
was nearly fainting. 

When the mind accepts, without re- 
luctance, the suggestion of a personal 
disguise, it is only with the conviction 
that it is to. be of brief duration, and, 
moreover, even under a false name or 
borrowed costume, that one’s personality 
is not encroached upon. 

But this was not the case with Paul. 
He saw him'self not only compelled to re- 
nounce his inviduality, but to assume that 
of another He would perhaps be happy 
and rich. He might marry Flavia. He 
might bear a title and a noble name; 
but wife, wealth, family, and happiness 
— he would owe to a miserable decj^ption. 
And the compact once concluded, he 
would never again be able to retreat 
from the position. He would be, as it 
were, an actor condemned to live under his 
mask and in the costume of his role : and 
he must continue to keep up this role until 
the day of his death. He shuddered, and 
recalled one solace dropped by Tantaine. 

“ Paul Violaine is dead ! ” 

It seemed to him in truth as if some- 
thing had gone from him already. 

He tortured his memory to recall any 
similar event in the life of any one. And 
not in vain. He remembered the story 
of Cognard that bold highway robber 
who took the name of Comte de Sainte 
Helene, and was admired by all Paris for 
his military air, and who audaciously 
took the command of his battalion on the 
day of a royal review. 

Cognard was betrayed by an old com- 
panion of the ball and chain. 

This was precisely the risk Paul now 
ran — a prison for life, or for so long a 
term of years that it amounted to the 
same thing. 

He, too, would run the risk of meeting 
some old comrade, who, in some hour of 
triumph, would point to him with scorn- 
ful finger, and shout aloud : 

Stop him ! He is Paul Violaine, the 
son of a woman who kept a thread-and- 
needle shop in Poitiers in the Rue des 
Vignes.” 

‘‘•What would he do then? Would 
he have the courage and the self-posses- 
sion needful to turn laughingly toward 
his accuser, and say, cheerfully: 

“ Look at me again, my friend, and see 


if you are not mistaken ! for I never saw 
you before.” 

Paul felt that he was incapable of this 
imperturbable impudence, and the convic- 
tion of not being up in his part added to 
his fright. 

Could he ever do it? Ah! that was the 
question that disturbed him. 

And at this moment had he seen any 
way of escape he would have taken to 
flight, biit he had no way of living. 

He knew, too, by this time, inexperi- 
enced as he was, that people like Masca- 
rot, Hortebise, and Tantaine, did not sow 
their secrets in highways and byways. 
They had each of them taken him into his 
confidence, and said strange things enough 
to him to prove that they regarded him as 
entirely in their power. 

He had a very clear perception, also, of 
what it meant to be in Mascarot’s power, 
and was perfectly certain that he could 
never escape from his vengeance. To 
agree to the plan proposed was unques- 
tionably to consent to run a very great 
danger; but it was one that was far off, 
and by no means certain. But to refuse 
was to expose himself to an immediate 
peril, and one, moreover, that was perfectly 
defined. 

Paul naturally chose between these two 
the one that was the most distant. These 
were the last convulsions of his expiring 
conscience. 

“ I accept,” he said to himself; “ I ac- 
cept, because there is nothing else for me 
to do 1 ” 

It must here be acknowledged that the 
five days passed by Paul in the compan- 
ionship of the excellent Hortebise had an 
enormous weight in Paul’s decision. 

This good doctor had the gift to a very 
marked degree of rendering vice attrac- 
tive, and of smothering all conscientious 
scruples. 

In the exposition of his odious theories 
he knew how to employ the most charming 
and graceful language. If his hearer 
looked shocked or even surprised, he had 
always innumerable examples to cite. 

It was, therefore, almost impossible for 
a youth, whose principles were by no means 
fixed, and whose tastes for luxuries and 
for all that wealth can give were already 
developing, should not be affected by the 
specious arguments of the doctor. 

Even a fellow stronger than Paul would 
have probably succumbed to these inces- 
sant and insidious attacks, which had all 
the inoffensive appearance and the re- 
doubtable power of the long dripping of 
water upon the rock. 

Dr. Hortebise declared that the world 
was divided into two classes. 

“ And to which will you belong,” he 
asked of Paul, “to Abel’s posterity, or to 
Cain’s? There is no middle course. The 
sons of Abel are like sheep in the hands of 
the shearer. Cain’s posterity, on the con- 


140 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


trary, hold the scissors and clip the 
wool.” 

After talking in this fashion for a long 
time, he condensed the whole force of his 
words into one aphorism, and said : 

“Success justifies all. A huge crime 
which enriches a man at once, spares him 
the commission of an infinity of those little 
ones which people who are called good, 
and who really consider themselves such, 
are all the time committing.” 

Another time he said : 

“ The high road to fortune is now so 
overcrowded, that it is onlj^ those who are 
shrewd enough to take some short cut that 
ever arrive at the goal.” 

Now, the teachings of the doctor were 
all the more terrible that he was able to 
point to himself as a model, and say : 

“ Look at me I ” 

And in good sooth his example was such 
that one was almost tempted to doubt con- 
science and justice. Vice was triumphant 
in him, sat at his tempting table, rode in 
his luxurious carriage, which splashed 
mud on the honest foot passenger. 

As to the punishment which always 
comes sooner or later, he said nothing. 
Nor did he hint to Paul that the medallion, 
glittering with precious stones, which dan- 
gled so conspicuously from the button- 
hole of his vest, contained a poison the 
quickest and most subtle in its effects of 
a,ll known in the whole pharmacopoeia. 
He did not say that on this poison he re- 
lied in the event of any sudden catastrophe 
or exposure. Not at all ; he simply said : 

“ Be courageous, friend Paul, give your- 
self up entirely, soul and body, to*Mas- 
carot, just as I have done, and the Marquis 
de Croisenois, Van Klopen, and any 
amount of others. Mascarot can do any- 
thing with them he pleases. They are 
simply devoted to him, and they know he 
is working with and for them. When be- 
tween fortune and one of his friends lies a 
quagmire or Slough of Despond, he never 
hesitates, like a modern Saint Christopher 
as he is, to take his friend on his robust 
shoulders and carry him over.” 

And on this text the doctor preached 
endless sermons. Paul was so far from 
doubting the strength of B. Mascarot that 
he even overrated it, and after this last 
scene perceived no limits to a power es- 
tablished on such a foundation of terror 
an I mystery. 

He had been dazzled by a rapid succes- 
sion of events ever since he had left the 
Hotel du Peron, and this last event — his 
establishment in this apartment in the Rue 
Montmartre — appeared to him little short 
of a prodigy. He was confounded at the 
number of persons whom Mascarot man- 
aged at will, and whom he forced to serve 
him in the accomplishment of his projects. 

This woman who unhesitatingly de- 
clared she knew him — the concierge in 
the Rue Jacob, to whom any one could 


refer that pleased — the pupils who were 
ready to afiirm him to have been their 
master for months, were eacb and all so 
many slaves trembling under the iron hand 
of Mascarot, and bound hand and foot by 
trammels of some terrible secret. 

“Why need I fear, after all?” said 
Paul to himself. “ Can there be defeat 
with all these elements of success ? Does 
one even risk anything when protected by 
a man whom nothing escapes, and who 
seems to have the wonderful power of 
arranging everything he pleases, and does 
not allow the element of chance to enter 
into his calculations? If I should hesi- 
tate,” continued Paul, feverishly walking 
up and down his room, “ if I should allow 
myself to entertain any conscientious scru- 
ples No, no, it would be too utterly 

foolish ! ” 

He slept badly enough this first night — 
more than once he awoke with a start — 
he fancied that around his bed hovered 
the ayenging shadow of the man whom he 
had personated. But the next day, when 
it was time for him to go out and give his 
first lesson, he felt his courage return to 
him — perhaps impudence, however, would 
be a more appropriate word. 

It was, therefore, with a head held high, 
and the most assured air, that he repaired 
to the address on the card of Madame 
Grandorge, the lady who claimed to be 
the eldest of his pupils. 

Certainly he did not dream that two of 
his protectors were concealed behind a 
heavy dray, and were watching him most 
carefully. This was the case, however. 

Impelled by the same desire to know 
how Paul accepted and bore himself in this 
position, the genial Tantaine and Dr. llorte- 
bise met at the corner of the Rue Joque- 
let just in time to see their pupil pass and 
to have a full view of his face. When they 
saw him smiling and gay they exchanged 
a glance of triumph. 

“Ah I ha!” chuckled Tantaine, “our 
young cock crows again this morning! 
Last night he seemed to have lost his. 
voice! ” 

“ Yes,” said the doctor, shrugging his 
shoulders. “ He is well started now, and f 
think we shall have no trouble with him 
whatever.” 

But to make all sure they concluded it 
would be advisable to call on Mother Bre- 
got. It was with the most sei vile and ful- 
some homage that the old woman received 
them and answered their questions. 

“ No one has been near our young gen- 
tleman,” she said. “Yesterday he came 
down stairs after seven, and asked mo 
wliere the nearest restaurant was. I sent 
him to Duval's, close by. lie was back 
here when the clock struck eight. He 
went up to his room, and before eleven his 
lights were out.” 

“And to-day?” 

“ Well, to-day when I went up-stairs, at 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


141 


4 


about nine o’clock, he had just finished his 
dressing. After I h id arranged the rooms, 
he told me to go and get him some break- 
fast and make some coffee. I obeyed. He 
ate with such a good appetite that I said 
to myself: 

Good ! the bird is becoming accus- 
tomed to his cage.” 

‘‘ And then?” 

He began to sing like a bird. He sat 
down at the piano-forte. Ah, the darling ! 
his voice is as sweet as his face I Any 
woman, I really believe, would play the 
fool for his sake. I am only too glad that 
my daughter Euphemie is nowhere about 
here just now.” And the old woman 
opened her snuff-box and took an enor- 
mous pinch. 

“He went out after that, did he?” re- 
sumed Tantaine. “ Did he say how long 
he should be gone?” 

“Yes; time enough to give his lesson. 
He knew that you would probably be here, 
I suppose.’* 

“ Good.” 

And, satisfied by this result of his inves- 
^ations, the goo& man turned toward Dr. 
Hortebise. 

“ Perhaps you were going to the agency, 
sir,” he said. 

“ Yes; I must see Monsieur Mascarot.” 

“He is not there; but if you wish to 
speak to him on especial business, you had 
best go up to our young friend’s room, and 
wait there with me until he comes; for I 
think he must be here this morning. And 
1 wish to see Paul, also.” 

“Very well,” answered the doctor. 

These words were as effectual as a 
command to the concierge, who hastily 
brouglit the key which had been left in 
h(‘r care by the young man, and they has- 
tily ascended the stairs. 

Dr. Hortebise was far more impressed 
than Paul had been by the skill which had 
imparted to this room the appearance of a 
long sojourn, and of calm and laborious 
industry, 

“ Upon my life! old man,” he cried, in 
a tone of the most sincere and heartfelt 
admiration, “what a scene painter you 
would make — or rather, how well you 
would set a play on the stage.” 

At one glance he had graspod the most 
trivial detail and the most trifling acces- 
sory, anil he continued : 

“ Upon my honor, the mere sight of this 
little library would be sufficient to induce 
any father to give his daughter to the 
young man who lived in it.” 

lie turned, surprised at the silence of 
the old man. He looked at him and was 
struck by the sombre expression of his 
face. 

“ What is the matter?” asked the doc- 
tor, with some anxiety. “What troubles 
you? ” 

Tantaine did not speak for at least a 
minute. He sat in an arm-chair in front 


of the fire, with his le^s stretched out and 
his arms hanging by his side. 

Suddenly he started up and gave the 
nearly expiring log a furious kick, and 
then turning round faced the doctor with 
his arms folded. 

“I see trouble before us,” he said at 
last. 

At this declaration the doctor's smiling 
face darkened in its turn. 

“ Is it Perpignan who is meddling?” he 
asked, hastily. “ Have you found any in- 
surmountable difficulty there?” 

“No, Perpignan is a fool — an absolute^ 
intolerable fool. He will do precisely, 
however, what I bid him to do.” 

The smiles returned to the face of the 
gallant Dr Hortebise. 

“ Then, he murmured, with a sigh of 
satisfaction and relief, “ I really do not 
see — 

“Do not see!” interrupted Tantaine, 
severely. “ 1 dare say you do not, but 
unfortunately — or fortunately rather — 1 
am not so blind. Have you forgotten this 
Croisenois marriage? ” 

“ That is the obstacle. The whole affair 
had gone so smoothly — it was sa 
wisely arranged — every combination had 
been arranged, the possibility of any mis- 
take carefully guarded against ! And only 
yesterday 1 would have answered with my 
head for its entire success — and now ! ” 

“ Well, you were too certain, that is all, 
and you were not prepared for the smallest 
check.” 

“Not at all. I admit that, but T had 
not foreseen the impossible. There are 
limits to human intelligence after all, I 
presume.” 

“ Please explain yourself.” 

“This is it, then. The most skilful 
enemy in the world, doctor, could never 
have created for us — could never have 
put in our path — the strange and unlikely 
combinations with which chance now 
threatens us. You, doctor, who go much 
into society, will please tell me, if, in the 
year 1868, you know of any beautiful 
heiress of noble birth, who is insensible to 
the attractions of luxury, and uninffueneed 
by her vanity, but is capable, on the con- 
trary, of a great passion.” 

The doctor smiled, which certainly was 
the most expressive of denials. 

“ Nevertheless.” continued Tantaine, in 
a tone of intense irritation, “just such an 
heiress exists, and her name is Sabine de 
Mussidan. She loves — whom do you 
think? A painter, an artist, a man who 
has crossed my path aiready three times. 
This fellow, too, has an immense amount 
of energy and pei seve ranee — 1 never yet 
have seen his equal.” 

“Pshaw! an artist without fortune,^ 
without position, without family, without 
friends ” 

A gesture from his companion stopped 
him. 


142 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


‘‘This artist is not without friends, 
unfortunately,” answered the genial Tan- 
taine. ‘‘ He has one friend at least, and 
whom do you suppose that one to be? 
None other than the one who was to have 
married Mademoiselle Sabine — Monsieur 
de Breulh-Paverlay ! ” 

This news was so strange, and so utterly 
unexpected that Hortebise stood aghast 
and silent. 

How they ever came together, these 
two, is entirely beyond my powers of 
explanation,” continued Tantaine. “ It 
must have been by a stroke of genius in 
Mademoiselle Sabine ; but the fact remains 
the same, that they are friends. And 
these two men have engaged the very wo- 
man to push their interests that I intended 
to use to push those of De Croisenois.” 

“Impossible!” 

“ At least so I have reason to believe. 
At all events the three were closeted to- 
gether last evening, and unquestionably 
swore to prevent the marquis from suc- 
ceeding.” 

The doctor sank into a chair. 

“ What do you mean?” he asked, pres- 
ently, with compressed lips. “ Do you 
intend to say that you think they have 
penetrated the projects of De Croisenois?” 

Tantaine lifted his eyebrows in a dis- 
couraged sort of fashion. 

“ Look here,” he answered, “ a general 
on the eve of a great battle arranges every 
detail, but among his lieutenants there are 
always fools and always traitors. I had 
arranged between Van Klopen and De 
Croisenois a little comedy which would 
catch our vicomtesse. All was foreseen, 
combined, arranged ; I had prepared every 
detail, as I alone can prepare them. I was 
sure of a complete triumph. Unfortu- 
nately, after a rehearsal that was excel- 
lent, the representation was idiotic. Nei- 
tlierVan Klopen nor De Croisenois took 
the trouble to comprehend their parts. I 
had sketched a scene for them that was 
inimitable for delicacy and finesse, and 
they made of it a brutal, revolting, ridic- 
ulous exhibiiion. They thought, fools 
that they were, that it was an e isy thing 
to deceive a woman! And finally the 
marquis, whom I had advised only the 
most excessive reserve, unmasked his bat- 
teries — yes, the simpleton actually talked 
to Sabine ! From that moment of course 
all was lost; the vicomtesse, who had 
been thoroughly deceived, reflected, and 
instantly was convinced that the two men 
were playing into each other’s hands. She 
scented something wrong, and went off on 
the wings of the wind to Monsieur de 
Breulh to ask help of him ! ” 

The doctor sat with pale consternation 
on his face. 

“ Who on earth told you all this?” he 
gasped. 

“No one — I guessed it. Not so diffi- 
cult a matter, either. The results once 


given, it is usually easy to go back to first 
causes. Yes, this is just what took place !” 

Tantaine is not the man to throw away 
in useless words any of that capital which 
is called time. When he opens his mouth 
he always has something to say, and his 
words, however simple they may seem, 
have always a serious meaning. 

This the doctor well knew, and this it 
was, which now made him intensely 
anxious. 

“ Why do you tell me all this? ” he said, 
impatiently. “ Why do you not say at 
once, and in just so many words, that the 
whole thing is knocked in the head ! ” 

“ Because I do not think it is.” 

“ And what do you think? ” 

“I think it is seriously compromised, 
and that is a very different matter. VYhen 
you play ecarte, and your adversary has 
made five points and you only one, do you 
throw down your cards and give up the 
game? By no means; you cling to them 
on the contrary, like grim death, and try 
to retrieve your position.” 

The worthy Hortebise did not know 
whether he should admire the perseverance 
or deplore the obstinacy of the old man. 

“ But,” he exclaimed, “ this is sheer 
folly. It is like running, with your eyes 
wide open, into an abyss, the depth of 
which you have already sounded.” 

Tantaine uttered a long, low whistle. 

“ May I ask,” he said, “ what, in the 
opinion of your highness, would be the 
best course for us now to pursue? ” 

“ I should say unequivocally, give it all 
up. Abandon the whole plan and look 
out for another which, if less lucrative, 
perhaps, will be also less perilous. You 
expected to win the game: you had every 
reason, in fact, to think that you would do 
so. Now pocket your vanity, and make 
up your mind to lose it. You tried to bite 
something that has proved too hard. 
Drop it, then. If you persevere you will 
break every tooth in your head. We have 
tried these people, we have found them too 
much for us, let them be. After all, what 
does it really matter to us whether Made- 
moiselle de "Mussidan marries De Croise- 
nois or De Breulh ? The speculation is not 
there, fortunately. The productive idea 
— the idea of an enterprise to which every 
one of our people must subscribe — still 
remains intact. We will work it up at 
once, But at the same time, let us frankly 
confess our defeat on this present point, 
beat a retreat, and bury our dead.” 

He stopped short, disconcerted by the 
expression he caught in Tantaine's face. 

“It seems to me,” continued the doctor, 
in a wounded tone, “ that my proposition 
is not as ridiculous as you consider it. It 
strikes me as altogether reasonable.” 

“ Perhaps — but is it practicable?” 

“ I see no reason why it should not be.” 

“ Indeed! Then your fright shows you 
the position through most singular specta- 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


143 


cles. We are too far advanced, my dear 
doctor, to be altogether our own masters. 
We must go on. The necessity for doing 
so is imperious. To retreat now would be 
simply to invite one’s enemies to follow 
our scent. It is now battle for battle, and 
as the ag^^ssor always has nine chances 
out of ten, the sooner we take the initia- 
tive the better.” 

These are only words ! ” 

Pshaw! and what were our confiden- 
ees to Croisenois but words? ” 

This argument struck home to the doc- 
tor — he started and exclaimed : 

‘‘But you do not mean that you think 
he would betray us? ” 

“ Why not, if it were clearly to his in- 
terest? Reflect a moment. Croisenois is 
at the end of his resources ; we have daz- 
zled him with the prospect of a princely 
fortune. Do you think he would do noth- 
ing were we to say to him : ‘ I beg your 
pardon, we made a mistake. There is 
really nothing to be done ; you are poor ; 
remain so. We do not propose to help 
you?’” 

“ But it is not necessary to say that. 
We could help him.” 

“And where would that lead us? Do 
you wish to pay his debts, and pay off his 
mortgages, defray all his expenses, and 
gratify all his extravagant tastes ? What 
limits would he place on his exactions? 
Now that he holds the secret of our asso- 
ciation, he has us in his power quite as 
much as we have him. We have taught 
him the music, and he will insist on our 
doing our part in the chorus. You will 
find that he has grasped our theory, and 
can blackmail as well as ourselves.” 

We were very unwise, I am inclined to 
believe,” answered Dr Hortebise, moodily. 

“No! it was necessary to confide in 
some one. Besides, two affairs — those of 
Sabine and the Due de Champdoce — run 
side by side. They emanated from my 
brain almost simultaneously, and I have 
worked them up together, and they must 
succeed together.” 

“ Then you persist? ” 

“Certainly; more determinedly than 
ever.” 

The doctor had been rattling his medal- 
lion for some moments, with a noise that 
seemed to have affected his nerves, for he 
said, in a trembling voice : 

“I swore long ago that our destinies 
were one and together.” He hesitated, 
and continued, with a dreary smile : “ And 
I have no intention of retracting my words. 
Go on. But, I repeat, that your road 
seems to me to be a most dangerous one, 
and I add, moreover, that I consider you 
unjustifiably obstinate in your determina- 
tion, but I assure you, that in spite of my 
opinion, I will follow you to the very 
end, even to the grave. I have here in my 
hand, at this moment, what will save 
me all this shame and disgrace. A con- 


traction of the throat to swallow a bitter 
pill, one quick convulsion, a little vertigo, 
a gasp, and all is over.” 

This uncomfortable precaution of the 
doctor’s was peculiarly offensive to Tan- 
taine at this moment. 

“ There, that will do,” he exclaimed, 
impatiently. “ If the worst comes to the 
worst, and things turn out badly, use your 
medallion, if you choose ; but, in the mean- 
time, for Heaven’s sake have it in peace, 
and don’t rattle it in that distracting way ! ” 

He rose from his chair with considerable 
disturbance of manner, and leaning on 
the mantel, continued : . 

“ For people of our stamp a danger once 
known is a danger no longer. When they 
threaten us, they furnish us with our de- 
fenses. Woe now to whomsoever inter- 
feres with me, for I shall hesitate at 
nothing.” 

He suddenly checked himself, opened 
each door in succession to satisfy himself 
that no one was there, and then retiring to 
the fire-place, he said in a low, hoarse 
voice : 

“ Do you realize that there’s one sole 
obstacle in our path — one man only — and 
that one is Andre? Suppress him, and 
the wheels would all run smooth.” 

Hortebise started as if he had been 
touched with a red-hot iron. 

“Do you mean to say ” he ex- 

claimed. 

Tantaine laughed; but the laugh was 
terrible to hear. 

“ And why not? Is it not better to kill 
the fellow than be killed by him ? ” 

Dr Hortebise was so utterly horrified 
that his teeth chattered like castanets. He 
made no objection to saying to people, 
‘"your purse or your honor,” but to say 
“ your purse or your life” was more than 
he was prepared for. 

“ And if we were discovered ? ” he gasped. 

“Discovered! that is nonsense. Sup- 
pose the crime committed. Justice would 
seek at once to discover who had profited 
by it. Could they ever trace our connec- 
tion with it ? — assuredly not. They would, 
on the contrary, discover that this death 
would enable De Breulh to marry a woman 
whom he adored, and who preferred 
Andre.” 

“Horrible!” 

The doctor was unaffectedly shocked. 

“ Yes ; I know that it is horrible, and I 
have not the least desire in the world to 
go to this extremity. I only speak of it 
as a remote possibility to which we may 
yet be driven. Violence is always repug- 
nant to me quite as much so as to yoursmf 
and I hope that it will not be necessary.” 

The door opened and Paul came in with 
a letter in his hand. 

The young man seemed in the best of 
spirits, and shook hands with Dr. Horte- 
bise and Tantaine with the greatest cor- 
diality. 


144 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


“ I relied on this visit, gentlemen,” he 
said, with the easiest air in the world, 

but I did not expect you quite so early, 
and am truly thankful that I took it into 
my head to come in just now.” 

Tantaine smiled sarcastically, as he con- 
trasted this gay indifference with the 
crushed state in which he had left Paul 
less than twenty-four hours previously. 

‘‘ Things are going well with you, evi- 
dently,” said the doctor, trying to smile. 

‘‘ They are going so well, that I assure 
you that I can find no possible reason for 
complaint.” 

“ Have you given your lesson? ” 

“ Yes, and have just left Madame Gran- 
dorge. What a charming woman she is. 
She has treated me with the greatest possi- 
ble kindness.” 

Paul was utterly ignorant of why and 
how the doors of Madame Grandorge were 
opened to him, or he would hardly have 
expressed himself in this way. 

That being the case,” replied the doc- 
tor, with a tinge of persiflage in his voice 
that Paul did not catch — ^‘that being the 
case, your entire satisfaction just now has 
a good foundation.” 

‘‘ Oh ! ” answered Paul, a trifle like 
that would not move me much one way or 
another. If I am in excellent spirits, it is 
on another score entirely.” 

“ Would it be indiscreet to ask what 
that might be?” 

Paul assumed that grave, solemn expres- 
sion which a youth generally affects when 
the love affair which at that moment ab- 
sorbs him is touched upon. 

‘‘ I am not sure that I have a right to 
speak,” he said. 

“Upon my word! An adventure al- 
ready I ” 

The vanity of Mascarot’s pupil proved 
too great. He beamed with smiles. 

“ Keep your secret, my boy,” said Tan- 
taine, in a merry voice. 

This of course was just the thing to 
promptly loosen the youth’s tongue, as 
the astute old man had foreseen. 

“ Oh! sir,” he protested, “ do you think 
it possible for me to keep a secret from 
you?” 

He shook the open letter he held in his 
hands; and watching the effect of his 
words, he continued : 

“ That is a letter the concierge gave me 
when I came in. She said it was brought 
by a banker’s boy. Can you guess what 
it is? Very well — don’t try, but let me 
tell you that it comes from Mademoiselle 
Flavia Regal, and leaves me no doubt of 
her sentiments toward me.” 

“ Is that really so? ” 

“ Yes, it stands just this way. Any day 
when I choose. Mademoiselle Flavia will 
become Madame Paul.” 

A bright color flushed the wrinkled 
cheeks of old Tantaine, but faded away 
almost instantly. 


“ And you are happy?” he asked, with 
a very perceptible tremor of the voice, 
“very happy?” 

The young man carelessly threw back 
his coat, and putting his thumbs into the 
armholes of his vest, said carelessly : 

“ Yes, I am happy, as you may believe; 
but Mademoiselle Flavia told me the third 
visit that I paid at the house, that she was 
not displeased with me.” 

Tantaine, as if he did not consider his 
spectacles sufficient concealment for his 
emotions, now covered his face with his 
hands.” 

“ But the last evening I saw her,” con- 
tinued Paul, “Mademoiselle Flavia was 
reserved and cold. You think, perhaps, 
I endeavored to soften her — not at all. 
So I said to myself, ^ Let her be, my boy,’ 
and came away much earlier than usual.” 

Paul was not telling the truth. He had 
been frightfully uneasy. 

“And I did wiseiy, as the result has 
proved,” he continued. “ Poor girl ! Lis- 
ten to what she says.” 

He threw back his hair, took an imposing 
attitude, and read aloud the following let- 
ter : 

“ My Friend — I was very naughty, and 
I repent ; I could not sleep all night, for I 
was haunted by the grief I saw in your 
eyes when you left. Paul, it was a test — 
will you forgive me? I suffered much 
more than you could have done. 

“ Some one who loves me, alas ! possibly 
more than you do, has told me, over and 
over again, that when a young ^rl shows 
her whole heart to the man she loves, she 
risks her happiness. Is this true? 

“ I hope not, Paul, for never — no, never, 
can I leani to feign ; and the proof of my 
words is that I am now going to tell you 
all. I am certain that if your one good 
friend — our good friend, dear Dr. Horte- 
bise — should come from you as the bearer 
of a certain request, that it would not be 
refused. 

“ I am sure, too, that were I to join my 
prayers to his, that — the answer would 
be ‘Yes.’” 

“And this letter did not touch you?” 
asked Tantaine. 

“ Of course it did ! Has she not a dowry 
of a million?” 

At these words Tantaine started up with? 
so menacing an aspect that Paul recoiled 
wonderstruck at this unexpected anger. 

But, at a warning glance from Horte- 
bise, the old man restrained himself. 

“ If one only knew when he meant what 
he said,” he muttered. “ His very vices 
are feigned.” 

“ Is he not our pupil?” asked the doc- 
tor, with a smile. 

Tantaine, meanwhile, had gone up to 
Paul and placed his large hand on the 
youth’s head. As he tumbled his hair 
somewhat roughly, he muttered : 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


145 


“No — you will never know how much 
you owe to Mademoiselle Flavia, my boy.” 

This scene impressed Paul the more 
strongly from the fact he could in no de- 
gree grasp its meaning. 

There were two men who had done their 
very best to pervert in him all his moral 
sense. They had labored to this end, and 
brought to bear upon it all the resources 
of their powerful intellects ; and now that 
he was seeking to put their lessons into 
practice, hoping thereby to win their 
praise, they turned away from him with 
the most absolute contempt. 

But before he had sufficiently recovered 
from his surprise to ask a question, Tan- 
taine had conquered all evidence of emo- 
tion. 

“My dear boy,” he said, “I am satis- 
fied. I came to see you with the fear that 
I should detect some wavering in your 
spirit.” 

“ And yet, sir ” 

“ Yes, my boy,” interrupted Tantaine, 
“I find you strong and steady, much 
more so than I supposed possible.” 

“Yes, he has really made astonishing 
progress,” added the doctor, approvingly. 

“ So much progress that it is time to 
treat him as if he were a man and one of 
ns. To-night, my dear Paul, Monsieur 
Mascarot will have from Caroline Schemel 
the clew to the enigma which has so long 
troubled us. Come to-morrow at two to 
the agency, and you shall know all.” 

Paul wished to ask two or three ques- 
tions then and there, but Tantaine would 
not give him time. He interrupted him 
with a quick, imperative good-moi’ning, 
and hm’ried off, dragging the doctor with 
him, with the air of a man who wished to 
avoid a perilous or troublesome explana- 
tion. 

“ Let us go,” he whispered, “ or in an- 
other moment I should have knocked the 
miserable, conceited fool flat upon the 
floor. Oh I Flavia, Flqvia, your folly of 
to-day will yet cost you tears of blood I ” 

The two associates were at the foot of 
the staircase before their protege had re- 
covered from his amazement. He still 
stood with parted lips, in the centre of the 
tiny library, an excellent model for a 
statue of surprise and confusion. 

All the pride and vanity which had 
swelled his heart only a few minutes be- 
fore had gone — evaporated, like the gas 
in a balloon that is pricked by a pin. 

“ I wonder,” he said, half aloud, “ what 
those two detestable people are now saying 
of me. They are probably laughing at 
my simplicity and ridiculing my preten- 
sions 1 ” 

This thought exasperated him to such a 
degree that he ground his teeth in rage ; 
but he was mistaken, for neither* the doc- 
tor nor Tantaine uttered Paul’s name after 
they had crossed the threshold. 

As they walked up the Rue Montmartre 


they were occupied only in seeking some 
way to cut the ground from under Andre’s 
feet. 

‘‘My information as yet, is far too 
vague for me to decide on the best place 
of action,” said Tantaine, meditatively. 
“ My present tactics are at present to give 
no sign of life, and I have given directions 
to that effect to Croisenois; but I have 
detailed one of our agents to each of our ad- 
versaries, even Andre, De Breulh and the 
vicomtesse can neither of them take a step 
without my knowledge. I have an ear at 
their doors, an eye at their key-holes, at 
all times — when they believe themselves 
to be most secure. I shall soon see their 

game clearly and then . But in the 

meantime trust to me and don’t allow 
yourself to lose your comfortable seren- 
ity.” 

They had now reached the boulevard, 
Tantaine stopped and drew out his huge 
silver watch. 

“ Pour o'clock,” he cried, “ how time 
flies ! I must leave you, for I have not a 
moment to lose. It is no time to sleep 
when one has milk on the fire. I have to 
go in ten different directions. There is no 
possibility of evading the business either, 
for I have to see that my spies are all at 
their post.” 

“ Shall I see you to-night ? ” 

“It is not very probable, for I think I 
shall dine at one of the restaurants in the 
outer boulevards.” 

The doctor stared. 

“ Not for pleasure, as you may imagine, 
but I have a rendezvous at the Orand- 
Turc with that scamp, Toto-Chupin. I 
must find Caroline, for I am convinced 
that in finding her I shall find the Champ- 
doce secret. She is discreet and cunning, 
and probably lives in fear and trembling, 
but she adores her liquor, and I trust to 
the devil to show me the especial liquor 
that will best loosen her tongue. And 
now I am off. I will see you to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Yes, he was in haste, this dear, good Tan- 
taine, in such haste that he, this most inde- 
fatigable of walkers, took a carriage and 
promised a hundred sous as a pour-boire to 
the coachman if he would drive fast. It 
was at the comer of the Rue Blanche and 
the Rue de Douai that he bade the coach- 
man stop first and wait for him. He then 
went to the happy house where young 
Gandelu had installed his divinity. 

He went in unquestioned by the con- 
cierge, and rang at the sumptuously fur- 
nished apartment wherein reigned Rose, 
now metamorphosed into the Vicomtesse 
Gora de Chantemille. 

It was long before his ring elicited any 
reply, but finally the door was opened by 
a tall, stout girl, with a red face, and a 
cap a good deal disturbed from its equilib- 


146 


THE SLA VES OF PABIS. 


rium. It was Gora’s cook, the maid who 
had so religiously carried back to B. Mas- 
carot the eleven francs she had borrowed. 
On seeing Tantaine she uttered an excla- 
mation of joy. 

Oh! ” she cried, “ you are as welcome 
as flowers in May, Father Tantaine ! ” 

“Hush! hush!” he answered, with a 
look around. The cook laughed aloud. 

“No harm done ! ” she cried. “ Madame 
is in a certain place where people don't 
come back so easily. You know the more 
precious a jewel is, the more carefully it 
is locked up ! ” 

This phrase that seemed to indicate that 
poor Rose had been arrested, seemed to 
astonish the old man. 

“ Impossible ! ” he cried. 

“It is so, though. But come in and we 
will tell you the whole story, while you 
drink a glass with us ! ” 

In the dining-room to which Tantaine 
was shown, six guests, seated around a 
table covered with bottles, were finishing 
a twelve o’clock breakfast. 

These guests were four women, whom 
Tantaine recognized as clients of the agen- 
cy, and two men, neither of whom in- 
spired confidence by their faces. 

“We are amusing ourselves to-day,” 
said the cook, “ as you see,” and she 
passed a bottle to Tantaine. “ But yes- 
terday quite another song was sung in 
this house, for just as I was about starting 
my dinner, two gentlemen asked to see 
madame. They were shown in, and then 
they said they had come to take her to 
prison. When she heard this she shrieked 
so loud that you might have heard her on 
the Rue Fontaine. She would not budge 
an inch. She hung on to the furniture, 
and then they just lifted her up, one took 
her by the heels and the other by the 
head, and packed her into a fiacre that 
was waiting at the door. There seems to 
be a fatality wherever I go, for this is the 
fourth mistress of mine that I have seen 
carried off in this very same way. But 
you are not drinking anything ! ” 

Tantaine by this time had discovered all 
he wished to know, and he now retired 
from the festivity, which would terminate 
only with the last bottle in the cellar. 

“ All goes well here,” he murmured to 
himself, as he entered the carriage again. 
“ Now for the next ! ” 

They turned into the Champs Elysees 
and Tantaine bade the coachman stop not 
far from the house the elder Gandelu was 
building. There he spoke to an alert 
little fellow who was driving back the 
foot-passengers with a lath, bidding them 
beware of the debris that was constantly 
falling from the scaffolding above. 

“Anything new, La Cordille?” he 
asked. 

“No Monsieur Tantaine, nothing; but 
please tell the master that I am keeping 
my eyes well open.” 


The old gentleman thus interviewed in 
quick succession one of De Breulh’s foot- 
men and a woman in the employment of 
Madame de Bois d'Ardon. Then dismiss- 
ing his carriage he started for th- establish- 
ment of Pierre Canon, the wine merchant, 
in the Rue Saint Honore, where he found 
Florestan, who, humble enough in the 
presence of Mascarot, was haughty and 
supercilious to a degree with poor Tan- 
taine. 

But, in spite of the dinner he gave Flor- 
estan, he learned nothing, except that 
Mademoiselle Sabine was frightfully sad. 

It was nearly eight o’clock when Tan- 
taine got rid of Florestan, and jumping in- 
to a fiacre ordered the coachman to drive 
to the Grand Turc. 

It is in the Rue des Poissonniers that 
the sign of the Grand Turc swings to the 
wind, and excites to madness the convivial 
aspirations of Toto-Chupin and his com- 
panions. 

Every brick in the facade cries out to 
the passers-by : “ Come in,” and promises 
all the joys of the world. 

A good table d’hote at six — coffee, beer, 
liquors, and a dance, moreover, to aid di- 
gestion. 

A long passage-way leads to this terres- 
trial paradise. The two doors in the rear 
lead, one to the ball-room, the other to the 
table d'hote. 

There came a sightly crowd of em- 
ployes, artists, etc., to take their evening 
meal. 

On Sunday there is not an extra seat, 
and children have to sit on their mother’s 
knees as they do in omnibuses. The 
table is the least of the attractions of this 
house, however. The last crumb of des- 
sert has no sooner disappeared than, on a 
sign from the head waiter, there is a grand 
clearing away of everything. In the 
twinkling of an eye the dishes and table- 
cloths disappear. The restaurant becomes 
a cafe, and beer flows in rivers — the rattle 
of dominos replaces that of forks. 

But this again is nothing. At a second 
signal large folding doors are thrown open 
and one is deafened by the sounds of 
music. It is the orchestra for the ball, 
which fills the room with its waves of 
harmony. 

Free was all this to all those persons 
who had paid for a dinner, and yet it was 
very rarely that the two sets of customers 
— those with the stomach and those with 
the legs — mingled in the ball-room. 

The peculiarity of this ball-room was 
that the quadrille was never danced there. 
There were only round dances — polkas, 
mazourkas, waltzes — especially the latter, 
for which the Grand-Turc was celebrated. 

All, as one quickly saw, was sacrificed 
to this dance. The centre of the ball 
room is isolated by a bench, describing a 
perfect circle. 

The decorations of the ceiling may 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


147 


possibly be lacking in freshness, but the 
floor is marvelously shiny and smooth. 

The German population was represented 
in full force at the Grand-Turc, and any 
one who desired one of the ladies for the 
next dance must at least be acquainted 
with the graceful idiom of Strasbourg. 
There, hour after hour, cooks from Alsace 
could be seen, moving stiffl}^, with the 
mouth half open and eyes half closed, 
turning round and round with the auto- 
matic grace of some of those wooden fig- 
ures seen on hand-organs. 

The master of ceremonies had called 
out ten times take your places for the 
waltz,’- when Father Tantaine presented 
himself, having paid his entrance fee. 

The fete was very animated, and the at- 
mosphere heavy, and loaded with heavy 
emanations and strange perfumes — a new 
comer would have Tun the risk of suffoca- 
tion, but Tantaine resembled Alcibiades, 
who was always as much at ease wherever 
the exigencies of his profession took him 
as if he had been at home. 

It was the first time that he had ever 
been at the Turc, and yet any one would 
have taken him for "an habitu6, as he 
roamed through the rooms and especially 
the rez de chausse^ which was reserved for 
the sale of wines and liquors. 

But in vain did he wipe his spectacles, 
dimmed by the vapor and dust of the ball- 
room, he could see nothing of Toto- 
Chupin nor Caroline Schemel. 

Have I made a perfectly useless expe- 
dition,” he asked himself, or am I sim- 
ply too early?” 

To wait was very difficult. But he went 
down and found a chair near the desk, and 
order;>d some beer. As an amusement he 
studied the symbolical picture of the es- 
tablishment. 

It was a large picture, crude in color, 
and represented a man affiicced by an ap- 
palling obesity, wearing a white turban 
and blue shirt, seated in a red chair near a 
green curtain, with his feet on a yellow 
carpet. He had one hand laid out fiat 
upon his stomach and the other extended 
a glass to be filled with wine. 

It is easy to see, of course, that this is 
the Grand Turk just from his pipe, which 
is enormous, and then by the lion at his 
side, and finally by the sultana, who with 
the most condescending air fills his pipe 
with foaming beer. This sultana is a 
most gorgeous creature, blonde and short, 
and was born, as any one can tell at a 
glance, in Alsace, which is a delicate com- 
pliment addressed by the artist to the skill 
and agility of the ladies who frequent the 
establishment. 

Tantaine looked at this work of art with 
considerable wonder, when all at. once he 
heard a whining voice not far off. 

‘‘That is certainly Toto-Chupin,” he 
said; ‘"the miserable scamp! Where on 
earth can he be that I did not see him? ” 


He turned around, and two tables further 
on, in a darkish corner, he discovered the 
fellow he had been looking for. 

That he had passed Toto without recog- 
nizing him was in no degree surprising, 
for Toto did not look like himself. No, 
indeed ! there was not a trace of the boy 
who shivered in a ragged blouse. He was 
absolutely magnificent in every respect. 

His plan of life had been marked out the 
day he had extorted a hundred francs from 
Tantaine, and this plan he had put into ex- 
ecution. He had sworn that he would fill 
the hearts of his friends with envy at his 
splendor, and he had succeeded. "He was 
wonderful. All the choicest treasures of 
a tailor had evidently been oftered him to 
choose from. He had ridiculed young 
Gaston de Gandelu, and laughed at him, 
all of which did not prevent him from im- 
itating him. He had called him a monkey, 
but he had out-monkeyed the monkey I 

He wore a short light coat, a vest that 
was surprising both in color and design, 
and pantaloons tightly strapped. He who 
formerly despised shirts now had difficulty 
in turning his head in a stiff collar. His 
head had been entrusted to a coifieur, and 
his dark-colored hair had been carefully 
friezed. 

He was seated at a table covered with 
glasses. With him, and drinking with 
him, were two men who were evidently 
his guests. They wore loosely-knotted 
cravats and shiny leather caps. 

Toto-Chupin’ s haughty oir and conde- 
scending smile told the story at once that 
he was standing treat; and enjoyed that 
superiority which belongs to those who 
pay over those who accept. 

Tantaine rose to take the youth by the 
ear, when he hesitated. 

Cautiously and slowly, without the least 
hastiness of movement which could attract 
the attention of the two, he turned around 
two benches and got very near Toto, con- 
cealing himself behind one of the pillars 
that held up the gallery. 

Thanks to this maneuver, which occu- 
pied at least five minutes, he found himself 
at last so near, that he could hear every 
word that was said. 

Chupin was speaking. 

“You need not call me a boaster,” he 
said to his two friends, “ nor a dandy; as 
you see me now you will see me forever, 
at least this is my present intention ; and 
then to work on a large scale as I wish to 
do, a man must be carefully dressed.” 

His companions laughed until tears stood 
in their eyes. 

“ I know all about it,” continued Toto. 
“ I have a good deal of sense, though you 
choose to pretend I have not, and I think 
I shall take dancing lessons — I can pay 
for them — and then I shall resemble a 
person whom neither of you ever saw, but 
who is, nevertheless, very chief’'* 

“Well, well!” said one of his friends; 


148 


THE SLAVES OF PAEIS. 


“ wonders will never cease. Say, Chupin, 
when you go to the Bois in a carriage, will 
you take me?” 

‘‘You talk as if it was a great thing to 
go to the Bois in a carriage! Anybody 
can do that who has money ; and who are 
those who make money? Just those per- 
sons who have plenty of impudence and a 
trade. Very well! I know a trade that 
has succeeded well with the persons from 
whom I learned it ; why should it not suc- 
ceed with me?” 

It was with sick terror that Tantaine 
saw that Toto was tipsy. What was he 

about to say and what, moreover, did 

he know? 

The old man made ready to fly at the 
boy’s throat and choke down the first com- 
promising word. 

Toto’s two guests knew, too, that he had 
drank too much. But as he seemed dis- 
posed to tell them a secret they became 
very attentive, and exchanged a look of 
intelligence. They were quite ready to 
believe that this precocious scamp had, as 
he asserted, a way of obtaining money; 
for his new clothes, his liberality, all 
proved this. Where did he get it? This 
was the question. To induce him to talk 
freely they plied him with wine, and each 
did his best to work the mine. 

The younger of the two shook his head 
laughingly. 

“• 1 don’t believe you have any trade 
whatever,” he said. 

“Nor have I, if you mean by a trade 
working with anything but your brains ; 
but a trade, as I understand the word, I 
cei’tainly have.” 

‘‘ I don't doubt it at all,” said the elder 
of his companions, soothingly. 

“ Let us hear what it is, then,” inter- 
posed the other. You can't expect us to 
believe it unless we know something about 
it.” 

“ It is as simple as ‘ how do you do,’ ” 
answered Toto. “ Now listen to me and I 
will prove to you that I am telling the 
truth. Suppose I saw Polyte there steal 
two pair of boots from a cobbler’s stall 

Thereupon Polyte protested with so 
much energy that Tantaine, who had not 
lost one word of this conversation, did not 
doubt that some peccadillo of this nature 
disturbed his conscience. 

“You need not make such a fuss about 
it,” said Toto. “ I am only supposing a 
case. Let us say that you did it, and that 
I found it out. Do you know what I 
would do? I would go and find Polyte, 
and I would say to him, close to his ear : 

“ ‘ Go halves, my dear fellow, or I shall 
peach.’ ” 

“Very likely you would, but I should 
knock you down.” 

Forgetting his role of a man of the 
world, Toto made the little mocking gest- 
ure familiar to the gamins of Paris. 


“You would do nothing of the kind,” 
he cried, ‘"because you are not a fool. 
You would say to yourself : ‘ If 1 should 
hurt this boy, he would make a great up- 
roar, and then I should be arrested, and 
finally, when my guilt was proved, I 
should be sent to prison.’ No, indeed, 
you would not knock me down. You 
would, on the contrary, speak very gently 
to me, and you would finally end by doing 
just what I asked.” 

"‘And this is what you call your 
‘ trade?”’ 

‘"Yes; and is it not a good one? The 
fools run all the risks, and the wise ones 
reap the profits.” 

“ But there is nothing new in all this. 
It is blackmailing simply.” 

“ I never said it wasn’t. On the con- 
trary, I am proud to say that it is black- 
mailing reduced to a system.” 

And, thereupon, Toto took up an empty 
bottle, and hammered the table violently, 
calling but that he and his friends wanted 
something to drink. 

His two friends, in the meantime, looked 
at each other with manifest disappoint- 
ment. Toto’s explanation was in no way 
new to them, nor did it strike them as es- 
pecially practicable. 

Blackmailing is a speculation of primi- 
tive simplicity, comprehended by almost 
any one. The difficulty is to find the mine 
to be worked, and to be sure in the begin- 
ning that it is one will pay for working. 

Polyte said, presently : 

“ I do not mean that there may not be 
an occasional good stroke of business to 
be done in this line ; but one is not waked 
every morning by some one shouting 
down the chimney : ‘ Come and see me 
steal the boots from the cobbler's stall.’ ” 

“Nonsense!” answered Chupin, scorn- 
fully. “ It is in this trade like all others ; 
a person must be active to make money. 
Certainly clients like these do not come to 
you, but you can go to them, I suppose. 
You can hunt until you find them.” 

“ And where, pray ? ” 

“ Ah! that is telling.” 

There was a long silence, of which Tan- 
taine was tempted to avail himself, and 
come forward. In doing this, he knew 
that he should cut short any further con- 
fidences. But, on the other side, he 
deemed it wise to know the whole extent 
of the mischief they could do and were 
inclined to do. He, therefore, crept nearer 
still. 

Toto, forgetting the exquisite arrange- 
ment of his hair, was rubbing his head 
with that ponderous gravity which tipsy 
men affect when they are conscious that 
they have taken too much wine. 

Finally he said, half aloud: 

“ I don’t know why I should not, after 
all;” and then leaning forward, he whis- 
pered mysteriously: “I suppose I can 
trust you? ” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


149 


‘‘ Have no fear.” 

Very well. It is in the Champs Ely- 
sees that I make my money, and I am sure 
of a stroke of business not once daily, but 
twice.” 

But there is no cobbler’s shop there? ” 

Chupin shrugged his shoulders disdain- 
fully. 

Do you think,” he said, “ that I ad- 
dress myself to robbers? Not at all. 
That would be a wretched piece of busi- 
ness. No, I watch honest people — people 
who are supposed to be honest — people 
who consider themselves honest. Those 
are the ones that can be made to pay up 
well — who are the most liberal.” 

Tantaine shuddered. He remembered 
that he had heard B. Mascarot use almost 
the same phraseology. Toto must have 
listened at the door. 

“But,” cried Folyte, “honest people 
have no need to ‘ pay up.’ ” 

Toto cracked his glass, so heavily did he 
bang it down on the table. 

“Let me talk to you, will you?” he 
said, impatiently. 

“ Talk on, Toto»” answered his friend. 

“ Well, then, when I am out of money I 
go to the Champs Elysees ; with my hands 
m my pockets I saunter along a while, 
and then I take a seat in one of the aven- 
ues. From there I can watch the fiacres. 
As soon as one stops, I watch to see who 
gets out. If it is a respectable one, I 
have my day’s work accomplished.” 

“ And you think you know a respectable 
woman, do you?” 

“ I should rather say I did. When a re- 
spectable woman gets out of a carriage 
where she ought not to be, she is a forlorn- 
looking object enough. She opens the 
door, sticks out her head — does this two 
or three times — looks to the right, then to 
the left, and pulls down her veil hastily. 
As soon as she feels sure that no one is 
looking at her, she jumps out and rushes 
ofi*, as if the devil was at her heels.” 

“And then?” 

“ Then? Oh ! I take the number of the 
carriage, and follow the lady home.” 

Tantaine saw that Toto’s hearers were 
deeply interested. 

“Then,” continued Toto, “I wait until 
the lady has had time to get up to her 
apartment, and then I rush to the con- 
cierge, and I say : 

“ Excuse me : but please give me the 
name of the lady who just came in.” 

“ And you think the concierge will give 
you a name in that way ? ” ' 

“ By no means. But I always take care 
to have in my pocket a pretty little porte- 
monnaie, and when the concierge says, as 
she is sure to do, ‘ I don’t know,’ I pull the 
portmonnaie out of my pocket, and I say : 
‘I am sorry, for she dropped this just out- 
side the door on the sidewalk, and I wanted 
to give it back to her.’ ” 

Enchanted at the effect he produced. 


Toto stopped to swallow a huge glass of 
beer, and then went on : 

“ The concierge at once becomes amiable 
and polite. She gives the name, and the 
fioor, and tells me to go up. The first time 
I content myself with finding out if the 
lady is married or single ; if she is single, 
I give it up; if she is married, it is all 
right, and I go on.” 

“Go on? What do you mean? What 
do you do next?” 

“ I go again the next morning and loiter 
about until I see the husband go out. As 
soon as he is gone, I go straight to his 
apartments and ask to see the lady. 

I tell you, that is the time my heart is 
in my mouth, boys. Then I say to her ; 

“ ‘ Madame, yesterday I took a fiacre, 
number such and such, and I was unfortu- 
nate enough to leave my pocket-book in it. 
Now, as I saw you enter this carriage im- 
mediately after I left it, I have come to 
ask you if you saw this portemonnaie ? ’ 

“ The lady is furiously angry. She de- 
nies it, and defends herself, and threatens ; 
but I say, then, with the greatest polite- 
ness : 

“‘I see, madame, that there is nothing 
to be done but to address myself to your 
husband.’ 

“ Then she is frightened, and — she 
pays ! ” 

“ And you leave her?” 

“Yes, for that day. But, when my 
funds run low again, I call on her, and I 
say: 

“ ‘ Yes, madame, it is I. I am the poor 
young man who lost his money in a fiacre, 
with such a number, on a certain day of 
the month ; ’ and, when one has a dozen of 
such clients, one can live on one’s income I 
Now, perhaps you see why I am always so 
well dressed and have money in my pocket. 
Formerly, when I wore my blouse, they 
offered me a five franc piece ; now it is a 
bank-note they pull out.” 

The gayety of Toto Chupin’s guests 
faded a wav ; they were evidently refiect- 
ing. It seemed to Tantaine that each of 
them was coining to a decision as to what 
he had heard; their faces expressed in- 
tense contempt. 

“No,” said Polyte, who was the first to 
speak ; “ no, there is nothing new in this I ” 

“ No, nothing at all,” added the other. 

And they were right. This abominable 
speculation is as ancient as marriage, as 
treason, and as jealousy; and it seems 
likely to last and to perpetuate itself as 
long as there are jealous husbands tena- 
cious of honor, and women forgetful of 
their duty. 

Alas! who would be able to count in 
Paris alone, the unhappy women who, in a 
brief moment of mad passion — to be 
paid for afterwards by a life-long and bit- 
ter repentance — have subjected them- 
selves to the most intolerable and revolting 
of tyrannies. 


150 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


Some day, when happy and careless they 
hurry to meet a lover, they find they have 
been watched and followed by some das- 
tardly spy ; and a week later he comes — at 
the same time, possibly, with the remorse 
that is inevitable — with threats and men- 
aces to demand the pi ice of his silence. 

And afterwards — to these slaves to this 
monstrous curse of blackmailing — life is 
hut one long agon}^ 

There is no more happiness, no more 
serenity, no more peace of mind. At each 
sound of the door bell, they start and turn 
pale. Who is coming? They ask them- 
selves, with a shudder, if it can be he, 
that execrable creature whom they loathe, 
who comes to present some new claim and 
make some new demand, after the formula 
suggested by Toto. 

Madame will not refuse a little help to 
a poor young man who was unfortunate 
enough to lose his porte-monnaie in a car- 
riage, which madame was the next to enter. 
Madame remembers, of course ” 

Sometimes the Gazette des Tribunaux re- 
veals to the public an affair of this n iture, 
but few save those who have endured 
similar infiictions and anguish, pay any 
heed to it. To all others, blackmail, that 
detestable crime which permeates every 
scale in the social world, is but a word, a 
mere word, meaningless and vague. 

People laugh and suppose themselves to 
be safe from any attack of the kind, but 
no one is — no one knows that his day will 

not come. Madame de V ’s history is 

by no means unknown, however. 

She, poor thing, one morning made up 
her mind to do a most imprudent, most 
compromising act, which, at the same 
time, was an entirely innocent one. 

She determined to visit, in a room that 
he occupied in a boarding-house near the 
Ecole Mlitaire, a young officer who had 
been all winter very devoted to her and 
who had written her several letters which 
had touched her very deeply. 

The reason for her doing this was that 
he was dangerously ill, and that he had 
implored her to see him once more before 
he died. She wore the plainest possible 
costume — a black robe and a thick veil. 
She went out of her house, and seeing a 
fiacre coming toward her, she beckoned to 
the coachman, and bade him drive her to 
the Avenue de Lowendale. She had pre- 
cisely the manner so graphically depicted 
by Toto-Chupin as indicative of innocence 
and respectability. She was nervous, and 
looked to the right and to the left. Her 
anxiety was so apparent that even the 
coachman noticed it, and said to himself 
that he would make it his business to find 
out the name of this woman, and that he 
would make something out of her weak- 
ness, if he could be certain that she was 
guilty of any. 

He was soon able to pursue his investi- 
gations. After remaining for a half hour 


with the sick man, who was no longer 

able to recognize her, Madame de V 

returned to the carriage, all in tears, and 
was driven, not to her own house, but some 
distance further on. 

Vain precautions ! The coachman hailed 
a friend, entrusted the carriage to his care, 
and followed the poor woman. That very 
night he knew her name. He knew that 
she was married and had two little girls ; 
that her husband w^as very jealous and sus- 
picious, and had not the smallest reason 
for being so, and that he was called very 
wealthy. 

The next day he presented himself at 
the house in the absence of its master, and 

claimed from Madame V five hundred 

francs. 

She was imprudent enough — weak 
enough to give him that sum. 

She said to herself that with one word 
this man could ruin her — shatter her rep- 
utation, her happiness, and the happiness 
and honor of her husband and her children. 

The wretch saw the terror with which 
he had inspired her; he came back in a 
week imploring the small gift of a thous- 
and francs. This sum, too, was given 
him. He returned a third time and a 
fourth, a tenth and a twelfth ; until, finally, 
it became a matter of coui'se for him to 
appear each week. 

And if Madame V objected — if she 

hesitated, complained or bargained — if 
she protested that she had no resources, 
that he was ruining her, he would say, 
with his cynical smile : 

‘"I must, then, it seems, go to Monsieur 

de V , he will be more generous. I am 

sure he would give a great deal to know 


And so it came to pass that the rascal 
never left with empt}^ hands. 

He no longer drove a fiacre. He amused 
himself, and ate and drank. He kept a 
mistress, and when this girl asked him to 
gratify some extravagant whim, he called 
on Madame V . 

As he had long been accustomed to ig- 
nominy so he finished by believing in im- 
punity’', and took no precautions. He came 
in the morning and in the evening, at any 
hour that suited him, without taking the 

trouble to ask whether Monsieur de V 

was absent or in the house. 

More than once he presented himself 
completely tipsy, swearing and uttering 
frightful threats; and the servants were 
at a loss to understand who this man was, 
and also intensely curious to know why 
she stood in such abject fear of him. 

Finally the day came when Madame de 

V was completely stripped of every 

article of value. Everything she had in 
the world had passed into the hands of 
this brigand. She had sent her silver to 
the Mont de Piete. She dared not buy a 
dress, and she watched over the household 
expenses — for what? That she might 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


151 


pour the results of her economies into the 
rapacious hands which were always ready 
to receive them. 

It was just at this time that the coach- 
man decided to make by one grand coup a 
considerable sum, which bethought might 
save him several troublesome steps. He 
therefore made his appearance, and as 

Madame de V had literally nothing to 

give him, lie filled the salon with his coarse 
oaths. The scene was insulting — to a de- 
gree revolting and painful. He could ob- 
tain nothing from the lady, simply because 
she had nothing, and he went ofi* swearing 
that he would give her twenty-four hours 
for reflection, and that this was a great 
concession on his part. He had hardly 

gone, when Madame de V was taken 

so violently ill that she was carried to her 
bed. A brain fever set in, and her life 
was in danger. 

This was a great blessing for her. Her 
delirium revealed the truth to her husband 
and when the wretch again appeared, an 
officer was in waiting for him, who polite- 
ly insisted upon his going with him. At 
this very time the coachman is reflecting 
in prison upon the dangers attendant on 
applying the thumb-screws too rigidly. 

There are no half-way measures when 
the law lays its iron hand on any of these 
blackmailing enterprises. It is a hideous 
sore that requires instantaneous measures 
— cauterization and extermination. The 
police pursues with stern vengeance the 
guilty parties, and avenges the victims. 

Toto-Chupin’s auditors were intensely 
surprised and interested in spite of their 
disdainful airs. They had followed more 
than one shameless metier, and had turned 
their backs on a plan whose very simplic- 
ity was fascinating. They therefore 
determined to depreciate it more than ever, 
hoping thus to draw from Toto more exact 
details of his course of conduct. 

“ Such things are talked about, but they 
are never done,” said Polyte; ^‘you are 
only romancing. It is impossible I ” 

‘‘It is not impossible — and they are 
done ! ” answered Toto-Chupin, sulkily. 

“ Have you tried yourself, or have you 
been merely romancing?” 

At another time the conceited little ani- 
mal would not have told the truth,, but 
just now the fumes of the wine he had 
drank had mounted to his brain, and he 
mui-mured a few incoherent words. 

“ Well,” he said, “ if I have not done it 
myself I have seen it done often enough 
— on a large scale, to be sure — but one 
can always imitate a big thing in a milder 
way with a better chance of success.” 

“You have seen it done, do you say?” 

“ Of course I have ! ” 

“ And did you have your finger in the 
pie?” 

“Yes, to a certain extent. I have fol- 
lowed the carriages over and over again, 
and I have watched these fine ladies and 


gentlemen come and go — only I was not 
working for myself! I was like the dog 
who catches the game and never eats it. 
It was pretty hard. If I had had a bone 
thrown at me occasionally, even! But 
no, it was dry bread, and kicks and cuffs 
for dessert. I am not going to stand it 
any longer. I have about made up my 
mind now, to go in business for myself.” 

“And for whom have you been work- 
ing?” 

Chupin suddenly recollected himself. 
He drew himself up haughtily. He had 
not intended to do Mascarot the smallest 
harm — he had thought only of extolling 
his merits and extraordinary ability, feel- 
ing that in some way his master’s glory 
was reflected on him. 

“I work for people,” he said, proudly, 
“ who have not their equal in Paris. They 
do not stick at trifles either, you may be 
certain of that — they are so rich, too, 
that it would frighten you to try and count 
their money. They can do anything and 
everything in the world that they wish to 
do ; "and if I should tell you ” 

He stopped short, with his mouth open 
and his eyes dilated with fear and suspense, 
for before him stood Tantaine. 

Chupin's terror had no apparent ground, 
for never had the old man’s face been more 
genial or beaming — never had there been 
upon it so lovely an expression of serene 
benignity. It was in a voice that was en- 
couraging and paternal that he exclaimed : 

“ Here you are, Toto, and I have been 
looking for you for over a half hour? 
Mercy on me ! How fine you are ! Any 
one would take you for a youn^ prince ! ” 

But this unusual suavity disconcerted 
the boy. He felt that under this amiabili- 
ty a bitter sarcasm was concealed. 

The mere aspect of Tantaine had dissi- 
pated the fumes of beer and wine which 
obscured the lad’s brain, but, as he came 
gradually to himself, he remembered all 
he had been saying. He was conscious of 
his folly, and had a vague presentiment of 
some impending misfortune, which was 
none the less fearful because it was as yet 
veiled in profound mystery. 

Artlessness was by no means a distin- 
guishing characteristic of this child of the 
Parisian streets. His mental ability had 
been sharpened by stern necessity, as his 
intelligence was far beyond his years. 

His faith, therefore, in Tantaine* s extra- 
ordinary geniality was by no means large, 
and he at once grasped the fact that per- 
haps his very life depended now on the 
promptness of his decision in the present 
emergency. Had he heard anything of 
the conversation? Anything or nothing? 
All depended on finding that out. 

‘‘ If the old rascal has been listening,” 
he said to himself. “ I am lost ! ” 

And the lad watched Tantaine with the 
keenest attention, as if determined to de- 
cipher this living mystery. He was adroit 


152 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


enough to dissimulate his anxiety. Silence 
u^ould have betrayed his suspense. 

It was therefore with a gayety that was 
too noisy not to be forced that he replied : 

“ I was waiting for you, sir, and it was 
in honor of you that I put on my very 
best clothes. I did not wish to disgrace 
you.” 

‘‘ That was very good of you, I am sure, 
and I am really very much obliged.” 

And now will you permit me to offer 
you something — a glass of hock, or some 
brandy, perhaps?” 

Toto was regaining his courage with 
marvelous rapidity, for to patronize Tan- 
taine in this way amounted almost to an 
impertinence. But he would dare do even 
more to exalt himself in the opinion of 
the two friends whom he wished to crush 
by his superiority. He knew that he 
ran the risk of having his invitation re- 
fused, with a look of amazement. No 
such thing. 

Tantaine declined it, quite as a matter of 
course, by saying that he had just risen 
from the table. 

All the more reason that for being 
thirsty,” urged Chupin. 

He pointed with an air of pride at the 
empty bottles upon the table, and added : 

‘"We have drank all these, my friends 
and I, since dinner.” 

This was an introduction, or intended as 
such, and Tantaine slightly lifted his 
shabby hat, and the gentlemen, Toto’s 
friends, bowed profoundly. 

These gentlemen were not altogether 
pleased with the sudden appearance of the 
new-comer, and concluded that this would 
be a good time to make their escape, par- 
ticularly as they were not without fears 
that Toto might repent of his generosity. 
At the Grand-Turc. as elsewhere, it is 
sometimes the invited guest who pays the 
bills! 

A waltz had just been played, and the 
master of ceremonies was shouting his 
everlasting “ Take your places, gentlemen ! 
Take youi* places ! ” 

Toto's friends took advantage of the 
noise, and shaking hands with him, and 
bowing respectfully to Tantaine, they dis- 
appeared in the crowd. 

“ Good fellows ! ” murmured Toto, look- 
ing after them. “ Capital fellows ! ” 

Toto never blushed for his companions. 

Tantaine uttered a low, contemptuous 
whistle. 

“Ah! my boy! ” he said, “you keep 
very bad company, I fear. And you will 
be sorry one of these days.” 

“I can look out for myself, sir, I 
fancy I ” 

“ Go your own way, my lad. Of course 
it is none of my affair ; but you will come 
to grief one of these days — be sure of 
that. I have told you so, as you may re- 
member, more than once ! ” 

This prediction, to which he had been so 


long accustomed, removed from Toto’s 
mind the last shadow of anxiety. And it 
was almost with his usual serenity that he 
said to himself : 

“ If the old rascal suspected anything, 
I am quite sure he would not talk in tma 
way.” 

Unfortunate Toto ! Little did he realize 
that at this very moment, when his spirits 
were going up like an india-rubber ball, 
that his danger was the most imminent. 

“ This boy is altogether too clever ! ” 
Tantaine was at that instant saying to him- 
self. “ Too clever by far. Ah ! if I were 
going on with our business and could 
make it worth his while, I should find him 
wonderfully useful. But just now, when 
we are thinking of winding up affairs, to 
have a boy who knows so much and is so 
smart, to wander about at his own sweet 
will, would be the height of imprudence 
on the part of people who have the best 
reason in the world for knowing the im- 
portance of a stolen secret.” 

Meanwhile, Toto had summoned a wait- 
er. He threw on the table a ten-franc 
piece, saying, with a haughty, careless 
air : 

“ Pay yourself ! ” 

But Tantaine pushed the money back, 
and handed the waiter another ten-franc 
piece from his own pocket. 

This generosity put the lad into the best 
possible humor. 

“ So much the better for me ! ” he cried 
gayly. “And now let us find Caroline 
Schemel.” 

“But is she here? I could not discover 
her.” 

“ Because you did not know when and 
how to look for her, then. She is playing 
cards in the coffee-room. Come on, sir ! ” 

But Tantaine detained the lad for a mo- 
ment. 

“ One instant,” he said. “ Tell me, did 
you say to this woman precisely what I 
bade you? ” 

“ Word for word, sir.” 

“ Kepeat to me what you said.” 

Chupin, who was standing, reseated him- 
self. 

“ For five days,” he began, solemnly, 
“ your Toto has haunted the steps of your 
Caroline. We have played cards until all 
was blue, and I took care that she should 
rise from the table — a winner. I confided 
to her that I had a good uncle who was 
still fresh and alert ; cross, sometimes, if 
he did not have his own way, a widower 
without children, and crazy to be married 
again ; that he had seen her, and had fallen 
in love with her.” 

“Well done, Toto, well done! And 
what did she say in return?” 

“Bless my soul! she grinned like a 
hyena. Only, she is a suspicious sort of a 
cat, and I saw very well that she fancied 
that I was after her money. I did not look 
as if I had found that out, but I just men- 


THE SLAVES OF FAIilS. 


158 


tioiied the next time I saw her that my 
uncle was a rich old fellow with consider- 
able property.” 

" And did you mention me by name? ” 

“Yes, at the very last I did. I knew 
that she had seen you, and that you were 
not a stranger to her, and so I kept the 
name back as long as I could. As soon as 
I uttered it she looked more pleased than 
ever. ^ I know him ! ’ she exclaimed, ‘ I 
know him well.’ So you see. Monsieur Tan- 
taine, that you have nothing to do now 
but to fix the wedding-day. Now, come 
on ; she expects to see you to-night.” 

Tantaine settled his glasses with a de- 
cided gesture. 

“ I am ready ! ” he said. 

Toto was not mistaken. The former 
servant of the Due de Champdoce was 
seated at a game of cards. 

As soon as she saw the soi-disant uncle 
of Toto, in spite of the fact that she held 
a wonderfully good hand, she threw down 
her cards and received him with the most 
marked encouragement. 

Toto-Chupin looked on in delight. Never 
had he seen the old rascal — as he, in the 
recesses of his heart, irreverently termed 
him — so amiable and agreeable and so 
talkative. 

It was easy to see that Caroline Schemel 
was melting under his attractions, for 
never before in her life had such tender 
words been whispered in her ear by so 
musical a voice. 

Tantaine did not either confine his 
attentions to tender words; he ordered 
a bowl of kirsch punch, and then some 
old brandy. 

Tantaine’s long-lost youth had come 
back to him — he drank, and he sang, and 
he danced. Yes, he absolutely took her 
round the waist, and drew her into the 
ball-room; and Toto, in open-mouthed 
astonishment, watched them as they 
whirled around the room. 

Tantaine was rewarded for this super- 
human exertion, for at ten o’clock the 
marriage was arranged, and Caroline left 
the restaurant on the arm of her future 
husband. She had consented, moreover, 
to go to supper with him. 

The next morning, when the street- 
sweepers came down from Montmartre, 
they found on the boulevard, lying face- 
downward on the ground, the body of a 
woman. 

They carried her to a hospital. She was 
not dead, as they supposed at first, but 
only stunned. 

When she came to her senses the poor 
creature stated her name to be Caroline 
Schemel; that she went to supper at a 
restaurant with her fiance, and from that 
moment she remembered nothing. At her 
request they sent her to her home in the 
Rue Mercadet. 


CHAPTER XXVn. 

“It is only a master’s eye that sees,” 
says Lar’Pontaine, and once again the truth 
of this proverb is verified at the employ- 
ment agency in the Rue Montorgruil. 

For more' than a week B. Mascarot had 
not made his appearance there, and the 
agency was already suffering from his 
absence. Continual complaints were 
made. Beaumarchef was all very well, 
but he was not Mascarot. 

Beaumarchef, disturbed at the responsi- 
ble position he now occupied for the first 
time, had been to find Mascarot, and had 
even ventured on some timid remonstran- 
ces, but all to no purpose, and was so 
harshly reprimanded, in fact, that he beat 
his retreat with a sigh. 

What did Mascarot now care for his 
agency? With the goal in sight, what 
does any one care for the road he has 
traveled? 

Consequently, the day after the expedi- 
tion made by our good Tantaine to the 
Grand Turc, while Beaumarchef replied to 
each application with the same stereotyped 
phrase, “ My master has gone out on busi- 
ness,” his master was in reality shut up 
in his own private room. On the day in 
question, his face bore evident marks of 
care and fatigue. His eyes were red and 
inflamed, and on his table stood a cup of 
tisane which he occasionally sipped, as if 
to cool his face and relieve his parched 
throat. 

It was plain that this man, generally so 
cold and calm — so entirely master of 
himself — was now a prey to terrible 
agitation. 

Great generals on the eve of a decisive 
battle may appear unmoved to those about 
them but they are none the less the vic- 
tims of that feverish excitement which 
always precedes action. 

Now, for B. Mascarot, the hour had 
struck for the supreme conflict. He was 
about to take a certain step, after which 
there would be no possible turning back. 

He was waiting for Catenae, Hortebise 
and Paul, to reveal to them his plan in its 
fullest detail. 

The first to appear was Hortebise. 

“ I received your instructions, Baptis- 
ton,” he said, as he entered, “ and I have 
carried them out. I come now from the 
Hotel de Mussidan.” 

“ How do they appear? ” 

“ Sad, but resigned. Mademoiselle Sar 
bine was never especially vivacious ; she 
is graver and paler than before her illness ; 
that is all the difference that I can detect.” 

“ Were you alone with the countess?” 

“ Yes ; and I told her that I was so har- 
assed by the people who held the corres- 
pondence that she must be very guarded. 
She answered, with a mournful smile, that 
she was in despair, and that she was cer- 
tain of her husband’s consent, and could 


154 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


rely on her daughter’s docility, who held 
herself in readiness to marry Croisenois.” 

Tantaine would have received this state- 
ment with enthusiasm, but Mascarot was 
unmoved. Howe\rer much he may have 
been pleased, it was coldly that he replied : 

“ I saw Croisenois this morning, and if 
he obeys me, which 1 am quite sure he 
will, we shall get ahead of Andre and 
Monsieur de Breulh. The marquis will be 
Sabine’s husband before they discover that 
the banns have been published. This once 
done, we can afford to laugh at them; 
and, in regard to our grand idea, I have 
referred my plan of the company of which 
Croisenois will be president, and in a week 
the prospectus will be published. But to- 
day we have another subject for discus- 
sion, the Champdoce matter.” 

Here he was interrupted by the entrance 
of Paul, who came in rather timidly, being 
a little uncertain of his reception after 
Tantaine’s singular adieu the day before. 

C'ontrary to his expectations, he was 
warmly welcomed. Either Tantaine had 
not repeated what had taken place, or 
Mascarot regarded it with different e 3 ^es. 

“ Accept my congratulations,” he said, 
“ on your success with Monsieur Martin 
Regal. You have not only pleased the 
daughter, but you have fascinated the 
father.” 

‘^1 am glad to hear it. Last evening, 
however, he was away.” 

“Yes, I am aware of that. He dined 
with one of our friends, who sounded him 
with regard to you. If Hortebise should 
go in your name to-morrow to ask the 
hand of Mademoiselle Flavia, he would 
not refuse it.” 

Paul closed his eyes, dazzled by the 
glare of Flavia’s millions. 

“Hark!” interrupted Hortebise; “1 
hear Catenae bustling along the corridor.” 

The ears of the worthy doctor had not 
deceived him ; it was the lawyer, who came 
late, as usual. He did not apologize for 
his lack of punctuality, but hoped to win 
forgiveness by the smiles and honeyed 
words he lavished on all in the room. 

But Mascarot hastily rose and con- 
fronted him with an air so threatening, 
that the prudent Catenae started back. 

“What the deuce do ^mu mean?” he 
asked, with considerable fluster. 

“Can you not guess?” answered the 
other, in a tone that was more appalling 
even than his manner. “ I have measured 
the height and the depth of your infamj^ 
I was certain the other day that you 
meant to betray us. But you gave me 
your word to the contrar\% and you 

“I swear to you, Baptiston ” 

“ No oaths, sir, they are needless. One 
word alone, dropped by Perpignan, en- 
lightened us. Were you ignorant of the 
fact that the Due de Champdoce had a 
certain way of recognizing his child — 
that there are ineffaceable scars ” 


“ I had forgotten ” 

The words died away on his lips, for 
even his marvelous self-possession de- 
serted him under Mascarot’ s contemptu- 
ous eyes. 

“ Let me tell you what I think of you,” 
continued Mascarot. “You are a coward 
and a traitor! Even convicts keep their 
word to each other. I knew you to be 
vile, but not to this degree ” 

“Then why have you employed me, 
contrary to my wishes ? ” 

The impudence of this reply exasperated 
B. Mascarot to such a degree, that he 
caught Catenae by the collar, and shook 
him as if he would have strangled him. 

“I made use of you, viper,” he cried, 
“ because I had placed you in a position 
in which you could not harm us. And you 
will serve me well when I prove to you 
that your reputation, your money, your 
liberty, and even your life, depends on 
our success. Fortunately, I know where 
that body is. The proofs — the most ab- 
solute proof s of your crime — are in the 
hands of a person who knows precisely 
what to do. When I give the signal he 
moves, and in another hour you are a lost 
man.” 

The silence that followed was so for- 
midable, that Paul actually felt sick and 
faint. 

“ And it were as well, moreover, for 
you to pray devoutly,” continued Masca- 
rot, “ that no accident shall ever happen 
to Paul, Hortebise, and myself. If one of 
us should happen to die suddenly, your 
fate is sealed. You are warned ; now look 
out ! ” 

Catenae stood with his head bowed, 
motionless and rooted to the ground, as 
it were. He had been told, and he knew it 
to be the truth, that he was chained, 
gagged and tied and that he could move 
neither hand nor foot. 

There was no more tergiversation possi- 
ble, no hope of vengeance. He owed his 
position to blackmail, and it was now 
blackmail that threatened him ! 

Mascarot turned away, swallowed some 
of his tisane, and tranquilly, as if nothing 
out of the common way had occurred, 
took his seat again by the fire and calmly 
adjusted his spectacles, which were de- 
ranged by the violence of his movements. 

“I ought to tell you, Catenae, that with 
the exception of this one detail, 1 know 
far more about the Champdoce matter than 
you do. In fact, what do you know? 
Nothing in the world except what the due 
has seen fit to confide to you and Perpig- 
nan, and jmu imagine that you are in pos- 
session of the truth, do you? You were 
never more mistaken. I fancy j^ou will be 
astonished when you learn that for years I 
have been managing this matter.” 

“Yes, many years,” interrupted the 
doctor. 

“And perhaps it would interest you to 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


155 


know how I first got on the track of this 
affair. Do you remember that scrivener 
who had his room near the Palais de Justice, 
and who tried blackmailing on a large scale ? 
Well, through an unfortunate speculation 
he came to grief, and was lodged in prison 
for two years.” 

‘‘I think I remember the fellow you 
mean.” 

‘‘ He was intelligent and ingenious. He 
bought by the weight old manuscripts of 
all sorts and kinds, and these mountains of 
papers he looked over, sifted and read. 
To say what treasures he found in corres- 
dence" given over to the chiffoniers is im- 
possible, of course. But I believe them to 
have been many. Do you think that there 
was ever a man who has not had reason to 
regret, at least once in his life, that there 
was pen and ink within reach at some 
given time ! Was there ever a cause celehre 
where letters did not play an important 
part ? These facts have struck me so often 
and so forcibly that I ask myself why 
prudent people do not invariably make use 
of those haks which, at the end of a few 
days, fade away and leave the paper with- 
out a trace. Finally, I concluded to fol- 
low the example of the unfortunate scriv- 
ener. I, too, bought old papers, and, 
among other curious things, I found this.” 

He took from his desk a bit of paper, 
fumbled, ragged, and dirty. He handed 
it to Hortebise and Paul, saying to them ; 

Look at it well.” 

On this paper a trembling hand had in- 
scribed the following phrase : 

‘ ‘ tnafneertoniomzednereitipzeyaetneconni- 
siusejecargy 

And beneath, in large letters, was the 
one word, Never! ” 

It was clear to me that I had before me 
a cryptogram, that is to say, a letter com- 
posed according to particular rules and in- 
tended to place a compromising correspon- 
dence beyond all risk of exposure. 

Of course, it was equally clear that so 
many precautions were not employed in 
any ordinary social relation. I concluded, 
consequently, that this scrap of paper 
contained some tremendous secret. 

Catenae listened to this explanation 
with a lofty and supercilious air. 

He belonged to that class of combatants 
who never know when their shoulders 
touch the sand in the arena, and who, even 
when they lie exhausted and panting, flat 
upon the ground, persist in denying their 
defeat. 

The conclusion seems to me most evi- 
dent,” he said, patronizingly. 

“ Thank you,” answered Mascarot, 
coldly. “ At all events, it was necessary 
as a preliminary. I became deeply inter- 
ested in penetrating this enigma — the 
more so, as I have the honor to be the 
head of an association of which each in- 
dividual member owes not only their daily 
bread, but even the esteem in* which they 


are held by the world about them to their 
adroit manipulation of the secrets of other 
people.” 

Hortebise smiled a wicked little smile, 
and with a glance at Catenae, he mur- 
mured. 

Take that to yourself I ” 

Mascarot thanked his friend, with a 
gesture. 

One morning,” he continued, ‘‘ I closed 
my door, and I swore that I would never 
leave my room until I had translated this 
cipher.” 

Paul, the doctor and Catenae, each 
and all examined the letter handed them 
by Mascarot with the most scrupulous 
attention. 

The letters seemed to them to be placed 
quite at random on the paper, and con- 
veyed no sense or meaning to their minds. 

No,” said the doctor impatiently, it 
is no use ; I can make nothing out of the 
stuff.” 

Mascarot smiled — he was not by any 
means without vanity, and he had, more- 
over, his reasons for prolonging as much 
as possible the bewilderment of his au- 
ditors. 

“ You can discover nothing either? ” he 
asked as he took the letter from Paul’s 
hands.” 

‘‘ Nothing whatever,” answered Catenae, 
sulkily. 

assure you,” resumed Mascarot, 
“that in the beginning I was quite as 
much at sea as yourselves. Why had I 
not thrown in the waste paper basket this 
chiffon^ which was of ancient date, as was 
proved by the hue of the paper and the 
faded ink, is more than I can say. 

“Perhaps a secret instinct bade me 
guard it closely, for that it opened the 
high road to fortune for myself and for 
all of you. 

“ In every human heart,” he continued, 
“there is more or less curiosity — a mad 
desire to know those things that are hid- 
den. It is to this curiosity that certain 
people owe their success in riddles and 
charades. Note the fact, too, that I was 
quite as likely to arrive at some childish 
jest when I had succeeded in solving this 
problem, as at some startling discovery. 
The chances were equal, and this, of course, 
I fully realized. 

“ From the beginning of this study of 
this enigmatical fragment, I had known 
that there were two distinct handwritings. 
If it was a woman who had composed the 
rebus, it was a man who had added the 
word ‘ Never I ’ 

“ This ‘never’ was a reply to the pre- 
vious lines. If this surmise were correct, 
I concluded then that the woman asked 
some favor and the man refused it. 

“ Why this employment, however, of 
two different tongues, so to speak? Why 
this mysterious phrase, followed by this 
ordinary word? 


156 


THE SLAVES OF Palis'. 


“A brief season of reflection gave me 
the solution of the apparent anomaly. 

‘‘ The woman's demand was of so dan- 
gerous a nature and could reveal some- 
thing which it was to her interest to con- 
ceal, while this laconic ‘ never* was in no 
degree compromising. 

^^But how happened it, you ask, that 
the prayer and the refusal should be on 
the same sheet of paper? This question, 
too, I was not long in solving to my own 
satisfaction. 

‘‘ This letter was never intended for the 
mail, and never went into it. It was ex- 
changed between two neighboring houses, 
between two floors possibly in the same 
house, and perhaps, who could say, between 
two rooms in the same apartment. 

In a moment of intense excitement a 
woman, we will say, wrote these two 
lines, and sent them by a servant to a man 
whose pity and mercy she implored. 

“ He, transported by anger, snatched a 
pen and wrote this sworn refusal, and 
handed it to the servant, with the words : 

‘ Take that to your mistress.’ 

Having settled these points in my own 
mind, I attacked the enigma. I was un- 
accustomed to that sort of work, and I 
found, as you may imagine, considerable 
difftculty in the task, and I worked four- 
teen hours without success. It was the 
merest chance which gave me the clew 
which I was vainly seeking. 

‘‘I mechanically held this fragment be- 
tween myself and the light, with the back 
turned toward me, and read it at once. 

“It was an example of the simplest, 
most childish cryptograph in the world. 
Letters and words, instead of going from 
left to right, went from right to left, and 
to obtain the sense, it was only necessary 
to replace them in their order. 

“ I took a pencil and copied each letter, 
beginning at the last one. 

“G. r. a. c. e. j. e. s., etc. I divided 
these words, and I obtained this insignifi- 
cant phrase : 

“ ‘ Grace, je suis innocente^ ayez pitie^ 
rendez moi noire enfant ’ * 

“ Monsieur Hortebise snatched the paper 
from the desk. 

“You are right,” he said, “it is art in 
its infancy.” 

Mascarot smiled. 

“I had succeeded in reading it, but that 
was but the beginning. This fragment 
had been found among five or six hundred 
pounds of paper, bought at the sale of a 
chateau near Vendome. How was it to be 
traced back to its authors? 

“I should have despaired, but a friend 
came to my assistance, and discovered — 
his business w^as drawing maps and charts 
— a faint design in the corner. Look, 
there it is ! 

“ With the aid of a magnifying glass he 

* “ Mercy. 1 am innocent. Have pity on me. 
Let me have our child.” 


ascertained it to be that of the haughty 
house of Champdoce.” 

Here Mascarot rose and took his posi- 
tion by the mantel, on which he leaned his 
arm, and continued : 

“ This, gentlemen, was my port of de- 
parture. Faint was the light that guided 
me, wavering and uncertain. Another 
man than myself would have been discour- 
aged ; but I rarely give up an idea. I am 
patient, and I wake each morning with 
the same idea in my brain that was there 
when I went to sleep. 

“ Six months later, I knew that these 
words of supplication were addressed by 
the Duchess of Champdoce to her hus- 
band ; and how, and under what circum- 
stances. 

“ Since then I have fully succeeded in 
penetrating the secret first suggested to 
me by this tiny bit of paper, "if I have 
not earlier achieved my object, it was that 
one single link was wanting. I have 'it 
now; I obtained it yesterday.” 

“Ah!” Said the doctor, “Caroline 
Schemel has spoken? ” 

“Yes. The secret she guarded for 
twenty-three years dropped last night from 
a tongue that was loosened by wine.” 

As he uttered these words, Mascarot 
opened a drawer in his desk and drew out 
a voluminous manusci ipt, which he bran- 
dished with an air of triumph. 

“This is my masterpiece!” he cried,^ 
“ and the explanation of my maneuvers 
for the last fortnight. After you have 
read this you will see how it is that I hold 
in the same noose the Due and Duchess of 
Champdoce, and Diane de Laurebourg^ 
Countess de Mussidan. Listen, doctor^ 
you who have in me the blindest and most 
unquestioning confidence. Listen, Cate- 
nae, you who wished to betray, and then 
tell me if I am iu error when I aflBirm that 
I hold success in my strong right hand.”^ 

He held the manuscript out to Paul. 

“ And you, my dear child, read this 
aloud — I have written it more especially 
for you. Bead id carefully, weigh every 
syllable, give it the attention of which you 
are capable, it is the history of a great and 
noble family. And remember that there 
is not one detail, however trivial it may 
seem to you, that has not an enormous in- 
fluence on your future.” 

Paul opened the manuscript, and in a 
voice which trembled at first, but which 
gathered strength as he went on, he read 
the melancholy facts amassed by Mascarot 
under the name of “ The Champdoce 
Secret.” 


CHAPTER XXVm. 

When one wishes to go from Poitiers ta 
Loudon, the shortest and simplest way is 
to take a place in the diligence, which 
runs to Saumur. An extremely polite em- 
ploye receives the travelers, and, in return 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


157 


for a five-franc piece, he promises you a 
good place in the coupe for the next morn- 
ing. 

But,” he says, ‘‘ you must be here at 
six o’clock, punctually.” 

The next morning, therefore, the travel- 
ers are dragged out of bed at day-break, 
make a hurried and most unsatisfactory 
toilette, and arrive at the bureau at the ap- 
pointed hour, and find they have made most 
useless haste. 

Every one seems to be still asleep with 
the exception of a waiter, and he is not 
half aw^ake. It is no use to be angry, or 
even to remonstrate. Opposite there is a 
place where one can get a cup of cafe au 
lait^ and in that place the unfortunates 
take refuge. 

At last everything seems to be in readi- 
ness, the conductor utters a last appalling 
oath, the postilion’s whip resounds, and 
the diligence is off. 

•The conductor smokes his pipe, while 
the passengers lean out and admire the 
landscape. 

Look now, and you will see the meadows 
and woods of Bevron. 

The game is most abundant there, par- 
ticularly^ as the proprietor has never fired 
a gun since he was unfortunate enough to 
kiS, while out hunting, one of his servants, 
twenty-three years ago. 

The Chateau de Mussidan is further 
away, on the right. It will be two years 
at Christmas that the dowager Countess of 
Chevanche died — “a rougu, kind-hearted 
woman,” as the peasants say — lea^dng all 
her property to her niece. Mademoiselle 
Sabine. 

Further off on the summit of a terraced 
hill, like a fortress on a rock, appears an 
imposing mass, of evidently ancient date. 

This was the old Manor of Champdoce. 

The left wing has half crumbled away, 
and the wrind has carried off the roof and 
the vane. The rain and the sunshine have 
done their share alternately in the work of 
destruction, and the shutters hang help- 
lessly by a bolt or a broken hinge along 
the moldy wall. 

There, in 1840, lived, with his only son, 
the heir of one of the noblest names of 
France — Cesar-Guillaume de Dompair, 
Due de Champdoce. 

In the country round about he passed 
for an original. He was met walking 
along the high-way dressed like the poor- 
est peasant, wearing a wretched looking 
coat, and on his head a dingy leather cap. 
Wooden shoes and a stout oak stick com- 
pleted his costume, except in the winter, 
when he threw over his shoulders a sheep- 
skin. He was a man of about sixty, pow- 
erful in figure', and of herculean strength. 
His very look betrayed a will as firm as 
his muscles. Under "his heavy gray eye- 
brows gleamed a pair of small light eyes, 
which became absolutely black when he 
was angry. When he had served in the 


army under Conde, a sabre cut had cleft 
his upper lip, and the scar imparted to his 
face a frightful expression. He was not a 
bad man in any way, but he was head- 
strong, violent, and despotic to a degree. 

It was with a respect mingled with fear 
that he was met on Sunday, as with his 
son he crossed the Bourg to reach the 
church where he had a pew, the front one 
opposite the choir; and during mass he 
followed the service audibly, and put into 
the alms-box a five-franc piece regularly. 

This offering, his subscription to the 
Gazette de France^ and his wages to a bar- 
ber, who came to shave him twice each 
week, constituted his personal expenses. 

His table, however, was luxurious. 
Plump fowls, savory vegetables, and ex^ 
quisite fruits abounded; but nothing ap- 
peared on his table that had not been 
killed or gathered on his estate. 

Frequently invited to dinners and fetes 
by the noblemen in the neighborhood, wha 
in spite of all his eccentricities -regarded 
him as their chief and head, he made it a 
rule to refuse, saying distinctly : That 
no man with self-respect would accept 
hospitalities which he could not return.” 

It was not poverty which compelled the 
Due de Champdoce to this severe econo- 
my; his income from his lands alone 
brought in over ten thousand crowns per 
annum; and it was asserted, and with 
good foundation, that his investments 
brought him as much more. As a matter 
of course, therefore, he was accused of 
avarice. 

His past may in some degree explain 
this conduct. Bom in 1780, the Due de 
Champdoce had emigrated and served in 
Conde’s army. An implacable enemy of 
the Revolution, he resided in London dur- 
ing the Empire, and then, under the pres- 
sure of stern necessity, gave lessons in 
fencing. Returning to Paris with the 
Bourbons, he was indebted to a most ex- 
traordinary accident for the possession of 
even a portion of the immense domains of 
his family. But in his eyes this portion 
was miserable poverty compared to the 
princely opulence of his ancestors. As an 
additional pang, he was forced to see, by 
the side of the old aristocracy, listless and 
enervated, a new race arise, born of com- 
merce and industry. 

Then it was that this man, whose pride 
of family amounted to absolute insanity, 
conceived the project to which he thence- 
forward consecrated his life. 

He fancied that he had discovered a 
means of restoring to the ancient house of 
Champdoce all its splendor and former 
magnificence. 

“ I can,” he said to himself, by living 
like a peasant, triple my capital in twenty 
years. If my sons and my grandsons fol- 
low my example, the Champdoce family 
will resume the rank to which their birth 
entitles them.” 


158 


THE 8 LAVES OF PABIS. 


About 1820, faithful to his plan, he mar- 
ried against his inclination a girl without 
beauty, but of noble family and magnifi- 
cent dowry. Their union was far from 
happy, and people went so far as to accuse 
the Due of unparalleled brutality toward 
a young woman who could not understand 
how a man, to whom she had brought a 
dowry of five hundred thousand francs, 
could" refuse her a dress she needed. 

After a year of unhappiness and discord, 
she gave birth to a son, who was baptised 
under the name of Louis Norbert, and six 
months later she died. 

Far from deploring this early death, the 
Due in his heart rejoiced at it. He had a 
hearty, robust heir, and his mother’s for- 
tune would help build up the Champdoce 
family. 

His widowhood was the pretext, more- 
over, for new economy. 

Norbert was brought up precisely like 
the farmers’ children — neither better nor 
worse. 

He started out each morning, with his 
allowance of food for the day in a basket, 
slung upon his back. Then^ as he grew 
older, he learned to reap and to sow, to 
measure the value of a standing crop at a 
glance, and, finally, to make a good bar- 
gain. 

For a long time the Due had hesitated 
as to the wisdom of allowing his son to 
learn to read. 

If he finally decided in favor of a cer- 
tain amount of education, it was because 
he was influenced by the observations of 
the Cur6 on the day of Norbert’s first 
communion. 

All went on calmly and quietly until the 
day that the youth was sixteen, or rather 
until the day that he went for the first 
time with his father to town, that is to say 
to Poitiers. 

At sixteen Louis Norbert de Champdoce 
looked twenty, and was the handsomest 
young fellow imaginable. 

The sun had imparted to his skin the 
rich tones of old bronze. He had black 
hair, slightly waving, and large, melan- 
choly blue eyes — his mother’s eyes. Poor 
woman ! it was her only beauty. 

He was a perfect savage, and had been 
kept in such a state of dependence by his 
father that he had never wandered a 
league from the chateau; to him, there- 
fore, the small town of Bevron, with its 
sixty houses, its mayor's house, the 
church, and the great inn, was a spot of 
great excitement, noise, and confusion. 

He had never, in the whole course of his 
life, spoken to three strangers. 

Brought up in this strange way, it was 
almost impossible for Korbert to conceive 
an existence other than his own. His only 
idea of happiness was an abundant har- 
vest. High mass each Sunday morning 
was his only fete. For more than a year 
the young peasant girls had watched him 


out of the corners of their eyes. He, 
however, was far too innocent to find this 
out. After mass he generally strolled 
with his father through the fields to see 
what had been done during the week, or 
he obtained permission to set snares for 
the birds. 

His father at last determined to do some- 
thing to cultivate his mind, and told Nor- 
bert that he was to accompany him the 
next day to Poitiers. 

They started very early in one of the 
low wagons of the district; and under 
their feet were bags containing more than 
forty thousand francs in silver. 

Norbert had been anxious to visit Poi- 
tiers, which, however, was only five 
leagues away. 

The sidewalks are old and dilapidated, 
and the houses high and dark; all date 
from the tenth century. Nevertheless, 
Norbert thought that he beheld all the 
wonders of the Arabian Nights. 

It was fair day, and he was simply stu- 
pefied at the excitement. He had never 
imagined that there were so many people. 
Such was his preoccupation that he did 
not notice that the horse had stopped of 
himself before a notary’s. His father 
shook him by the shoulder. 

'‘Come, come, Norbert! we have ar- 
rived ! ” 

He jumped out, and slowly helped take 
out the bags. He paid no attention to the 
obsequious manner of the man of law, 
nor did he hear one word of the conversa- 
tion that followed. 

Finally they left the oflice, and took the 
horse and wagon to an inn near the Fair 
grounds, and breakfasted on a corner of 
the common table between two quarrel- 
some drivers. 

Monsieur de Champdoce, however, 
had other business than the invest- 
ment of his cash. He wanted to find a 
miller who was in his debt. 

Norbert lounged for a time in front of 
the inn, a little disturbed at being alone, 
when all at once some one touched him. 

He turned hastily, and found himself 
face to face with a youth who said : 

“ What ! Forgotten your old friends ? ” 

“ Montlouis ! ” 

This Montlouis, the son of one of the Due’s 
tenants, had been a playfellow of Nor- 
bert’s. They had driven their cows to the 
same pasture, and had spent long days to- 
gether fishing and looking for birds’ nests ; 
but for five years they had not met. 

Norbert’s hesitation arose from the cos- 
tume worn by Montlouis, — the uniform of 
the college at which he had been placed by 
his father, who wished to make “ a gentle- 
man ” of his son. 

What are you doing here ? ” said Nor- 
bert. 

“ Waiting for my father.” 

'' Just as I am for mine I Let us take a 
cup of coffee together.” 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS. 


159 


He dragged the young man into a little 
wine shop, a few steps from the inn, 
Montlouis seemed disposed to presume on 
his superior knowledge of the world. , 

‘‘If there were a billiard-table here I 
should propose a game. To be sure, it is 
pretty expensive. 

Norbert had never had more money in 
his life than ten centimes at a time, and he 
colored and was bitterly mortified. 

“ My father,” continued the young col- 
legian, “ never refuses me anything. I 
am sure of a prize at the examination, or 
of two prizes, in fact. When I have re- 
ceived my degree, the Comte de Mussidan 
has promised to take me as secretary, 
what do you mean to do? ” 

‘•I — 1 don’t know.” 

/‘ You will delve and toil in the fields 
like your father. You are the son of a 
great lord, the richest man in the province, 
and yet you are not as happy as 1 1 ” 

When the Due de Champdoce came back 
he detected nothing extraordinary in his 
son’s manner. 

The words uttered by Montlouis had 
fallen into iN’orbert’s mind like a drop of 
Subtile poison. Twenty careless words 
from an inconsiderate boy had destroyed 
the results of sixteen years. 

A complete revolution took place in 
Norbert, a revolution which was unsus- 
pected by those about him, for this youth 
knew how to rule himself. Not once did 
his smiling face betray the terrible storm 
in the depths of his heart. It was with 
indifference that he accomplished his tasks 
which had once been agreeable, but which 
he now absolutely loathed. His eyes were 
opened, and he realized a thousand things 
he never before comprehended. 

His equals, he saw, were among the 
noblemen who in the summer resided on 
the neighboring estates, and were seen at 
the church. 

The Comte de Mussidan, so imposing 
with his white hair, the haughty Marquis 
de Laurebourg, of whom the peasants 
stood in fear, were always cordial in their 
greeting, while their ladies smiled gracious- 
ly. These disdainful creatures, who swept 
the Square with their robes, evidently re- 
cognized an equal under the coarse gar- 
ments worn by his father and himself. 

These facts effected a great change in 
Norbert. He was the equal of these peo- 
ple, and yet what a difference there was 
between them and himself. While he and 
his father went to mass in stout shoes with 
hails in them, the others drove up in 
equipages, surrounded by lacqueys. 

Why this difference, and whence came 
it? He knew enough of the value of 
crops to be certain that his father was as 
wealthy as these noblemen. 

The farm laborers said the Due was a 
miser ; and the peasants believed that in 
the night he gloated over his hidden treas- 
ures. 


“ Norbert is badly off. He who should 
have every pleasure in life, is treated with 
more severity than our children.” 

He also remembered that once, while 
his f ather was talking with the Marquis de 
Laurebourg, an old lady — probably the 
Marquise — had said : 

“ Poor boy ! he lost his mother so early.” 

What did that mean, unless that he was 
left to endure the tyranny of his father? 

Norbert saw that these people were sur- 
rounded by their children. Fangs of jeal- 
ousy brought tears to his eyes as he 
compared his lot to theirs. Sometimes 
walking at the head of his oxen, with his 
goad, he would see some of these young 
fellows pass on horseback. 

Their friendly greeting seemed to him 
almost insulting. 

What did they do, in the town to which 
they fied with the first cold weather. 
This was precisely what he could in no 
way picture to himself. To drink until 
he could not walk offered no temptation to 
him, and this seemed to be the only pleas- 
ure known to the country people. These 
young men must have more refined amuse- 
ments; but what were they? 

Norbert was obliged to spell every word 
in a book, but this did not prevent him 
from applying himself under the spur of 
new thoughts. His father announced that 
he did not like book-worms. Norbert did 
not drop his pursuits ; he simply avoided 
bringing them under the notice of his 
father. He knew that one of the upper 
rooms of the chateau was full of books. 
He forced open the door. There must 
have been some thousand volumes, of 
which two hundred were romances, which 
had cheered many a lonely hour of his 
mother’s life. Norbert took possession of 
these with the eagerness of a starving 
man. At first he confounded history and 
romance. 

From this chaos, two distinct ideas 
evolved themselves — one that he was 
miserable and the second that he had for 
his father,, a cold detestation. Had he 
dared 

But the Due de Champdoce inspired him 
with invincible terror. 

This state of things went on for eigh- 
teen months, when the Due de Champdoce 
decided to divulge his hopes to his son, 
who alone could continue the work of 
family restoration. 

It was on a Sunday, after supper. Nor- 
bert had never seen his father so imposing 
while the pride of his race shone in his 
eyes. He explained the details in the lives 
of those heroes who had adorned it ; and 
enumerated the princely alliances which 
had been theirs in the times of their 
power. 

“ What remains of this splendor? A 
hotel in Paris, this chateau, some land, and 
two himdred thousand livres only of in- 
come.” 


160 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS. 


Nbrbert could hardly* believe his ears. 
He had never dreamed of such wealth. 

‘‘ Millions! he repeated, millions! ” 

Two hundred thousand livres and yet 
that room looked like a peasant’s hut. 

How was it possible to accept so many 
humiliations. 

In indignation, he started to his feet to 
reproach his father; but this audacity was 
but momentary, and he sank into his chair 
shaken with emotion. 

The Due was walking up and down the 
room. 

“ It is so little I ” he muttered. 

Norbert knew that not one of those 
families, called so rich, possessed half this 
sum. It was, therefore, with an indig- 
nant countenance that he listened to the 
broken words the Due let fall from his lips. 

Suddenly, Monsieur de Champdoce 
stopped before his son; 

My fortune is literally nothing,” he 
said, in a hoarse voice, in this epoch 
where the tradesman piles up money. 
These people, believe themselves born to 
the purple, and copy not our virtues but 
our vices. The nobility, having misun- 
derstood the days in which we live, are 
starving. One is nothing without money. 
To hold his own against people who yes- 
terday had no existence, a Champdoce 
should have millions. N^either you nor I, 
my son, will ever see our strong boxes 
filled with such an income, but our de- 
scendants will be more fortunate. It was 
by the sword that our ancestors founded 
our house. Let us show ourselves worthy 
of them.” 

The old nobleman’s voice trembled as 
he thus approached the subject which had 
occupied his thoughts for years. 

‘‘ I have done my duty,” he said, more 
composedly; now do yours. You will 
marry some rich girl who will give you 
a son, whom‘ you will bring up as I have 
brought you up. You will be able to be- 
queath to him fifteen millions : and if he 
follows our example, his son will have a 
royal fortune. This is what should be, 
and what will be because it is my wish.” 

Norbert was stunned by this strange 
confidence. 

^‘It is a painful task” continued the 
Due ; ‘‘ but it is one by no means unknown 
to illustrious families. He who wishes to 
found a great house must live in the fu- 
ture; he must think only of posterity. 
More than once, I have faltered, but I 
summoned new strength, and now exist 
only for my descendants. You have seen 
me dispute for an hour for a miserable 
louis. It was that some day in the future 
a descendant of mine might toss it to some 
poor fellow from out the window of a 
gorgeous equipage. Next year I will 
show you the hotel we own. You will 
see wonderful tapestries, and supeib pict- 
ures. I embellish it as the lover embel- 
lishes the home that he intends tor his 


bride. That, Norbert, is the home that 
your grandchildren will inhabit.” 

It was in a tone of triumph that these 
words were uttered. * 

‘‘‘I have spoken to you in this way,’*! 
he resumed, ‘‘because you are now at 
the age to hear the truth. I wish you to 
understand the rules that are to govern 
your life. You are now a man, and in 
future must do voluntarily what hitherto 
you have done at my command. This is 
all. To-morrow you will charge twenty- 
five livres of wheat to the baker at BeV’ 
ron. You can retire.” 

Like all despots the nobleman did not 
admit the possibility of hesitating to obey 
him; yet, at this moment, Norbert was 
uttering a solemn oath that he would 
never accede to his father’s wishes. 

His anger, restrained so long by his 
fears, now burst all bounds. He was in 
the broad avenue shaded by chestnut trees, 
behind the chateau, and there he thun- 
dered out his despair. 

So long as he had regarded his father as 
a miser he had indulged in hope, but now 
he understood that life-long plans like 
those of the Due were not to be thwarted, 

‘‘ My father is mad! ” he said; “he is 
mad ! ” 

He determined for the moment to yield 
to this tyranny; but beyond that what 
was he to do? 

It is not difficult to find bad counsellors,^ 
and Norbert found one the next day at 
Bevron, in a certain Dauman, an enemy of 
the Due. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Dauman was not of that part of the^ 
country ; no one knew whence he came. 

He claimed to have been a hussar. On© 
thing was certain, that he had been a 
long time in Paris. 

He was a small man of about fifty, with 
a keen, sharp face. At the first glance 
one was struck by his long, pointed nose, 
restless eyes, and" thin lips. His appear- 
ance awakened distrust. He had made 
his appearance in Bevron fifteen years 
previously, with all his wordly goods in a 
handkerchief, and slung over his shoulder. 
He was ready to make money in any way, 
and prospered, and possessed fields and 
vineyards, and even a house, which is at 
the junction of the highway and the cross- 
road to Bevron. His characteristic was ta 
know everything, and to be seen every- 
where. He had a finger in every one’s 
pie. Those who needed money went ta 
him. and he was willing to oblige them at 
exorbitant interest. To the youths he 
gave a great deal of bad advice. He was 
adroit, and had the laws at his fingers* 
ends. To ameliorate the lot of the peas- 
antry was his hobby, and at the same time 
that he was taking from them enormous 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


161 


interest, he excited them against the no- 
bility and priesthood. 

His specious tongue, and the long, black 
coat which he wore had given him the 
name of ‘‘ The Lawyer,” and ‘‘ The Presi- 
dent.” 

If he was inimical to the Due it was be- 
cause that nobleman had declared himself 
openly against him, on account of a cer- 
tain matter which had brought the man 
into court and whence he escaped only by 
suborning witnesses. 

He swore revenge, and for the last five 
years had been watching for an opportu- 
nity. 

Such was the man whom Xorbeit met 
at Bevron, where he had gone to deliver 
his wheat, on his return with his two 
strong horses and heavy wagon. Dauman 
asked for a seat as far as his cottage. 

‘‘I hope, sir,” he said, with a profound 
bow, ‘‘ that you will excuse the liberty I 
take — but I am so lame from rheumatism 
that I cannot walk. I am growing old, 
Marquis.” 

Dauman had read somewhere that the 
son of a Due was called a Marquis. It 
was the first time Norbert had heard him- 
self thus accosted, and up to this time his 
good sense would have protected him 
against this fiattery; but now his vanity 
was eagerly seeking food. 

‘‘ I have a seat for you, President,” an- 
swered the youth, and Dauman climbed 
into the wagon. 

All the while that he was overwhelming 
Herbert with thanks, he was watching the 
young man. 

“ Evidently,” said the President to him- 
self, “ something unusual has taken place 
at the chateau ! ” 

Was here the opportunity for revenge? 

He had decided long since that through 
the heir would come his opportunity, and 
that he could best strike the father through 
the son. Caution was necessary. 

“ You must have risen early,” he at last 
began, ‘‘to have done your business so 
soon.” 

The young man did not reply. 

“The Due,” continued Dauman, “is 
lucky indeed to have a son like you. I 
know more than one father who says to 
his children: ‘Look at the example the 
young Marquis sets ; he does not shirk for 
fear of hardening his hands ; and yet he is 
noble, and need do nothing in this world.’ ” 

Here a lurch cut short the eloquence of 
the lawyer, who soon, however, began 
again : 

“ I was watching you as you lifted the 
sacks of wheat; you did not mind them 
more than a feather. What muscles! 
What shoulders ! ” 

At any other time Herbert would have 
been delighted to hear this praise, but now 
it displeased and irritated him, and the 
sharp blow he struck his horse betrayed 
his anger. 


“I always reply,” continued Dauman, 
“ when people say you are as innocent as 
a girl, that you are a sensible fellow. If 
you choose to live a regular life it is better 
for your health and purse than wasting 
your money on billiards and women. 

“But I would do the same,” answered 
Herbert, “ if I could.” 

“ What did you say? ” asked his compan- 
ion. 

“ I said that if I were my own master 
I would live like other young men.” 

He stopped, but Dauman's eyes fiashed 
with joy. 

“Ah, ha!” he said to himself, “the 
game is in my hands. I will teach the 
Due that he had best not meddle with my 
private life.” 

Then he murmured: “Some parents 
are certainly altogether too severe ! ” 

A gesture of Horbert’s showed him he 
was on the right track. 

“It is always so. The hair falls off, 
and the blood runs slow, and they forget 
the days when all was different. They 
forget that young men must sow their wild 
oats. Your father at twenty-five was very 
different. Ask his friends, if you doubt 
what I say ! ” 

The wagon turned into the high road. 

“ Here we are.” said Dauman. “ How 
shall I thank you, sir? If you would 
drink a glass of cognac, I should esteem 
it a great honor.” 

Horbert hesitated. Instinct warned him 
that he was doing wrong, but he would 
not listen. He fastened his horses and 
followed the President. The cottage dis- 
played every comfort and was well served 
by a woman whose position in the honse 
was by no means clearly defined. Dau- 
man's office — for he used the term as if 
he had been a notary — was equally enig- 
matical. On one side was a desk covered 
with ledgers. Against the wall were 
sacks of dried vegetables. On the shelves 
were volumes on jurisprudence, and from 
the ceiling hung bunches of dried herbs. 

With great respect the President wel- 
comed the son and heir of the Due de 
Champdoce. He pulled out his own leath- 
er chair, and after seating his guest, went 
to his cellar and soon reappeared with a 
bottle. 

“ Drink this, sir,” he said, when he had 
filled two glasses. “A man in Archiac 
gave me this brandy, in return for a favor 
— for without boasting, let me tell you that 
I have done many a favor for people in 
my day.” 

"He raised his own glass to his lips. 

“ Good, is it not? One can’t buy any- 
thing with a bouquet like that ! ” 

All this obsequiousness and brandy were 
not lost ; Horbert opened his heart in half 
an hour. 

Up to this time the unhappy boy had been 
blameless. He knew little or nothing of 
the President’s character, and poured 


162 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


forth his most secret thoughts. Dauman 
chuckled secretly, all the time, preserving 
the grave face of a physician who is called 
in for a serious consultation. 

“This is frightful ! ” he said. “Poor 
fellow ! were it not for the respect I owe 
to Monsieur le Due, I should say that he 
could not be in entire possession of his in- 
tellectual faculties.” 

“This is just the way lam situated!” 
Norbert went on, with tears in his eyes. 
“ My destiny is settled, it seems, and I am 
helpless.” 

“ It seems to me that I had better rot be- 
low the surface of the earth than vegetate 
thus I ” 

Again he hesitated, struck by the smile 
on Dauman’s lips. 

“ Ah ! ” he cried, “ you think what I say 
childish.” 

“ By no means, Marquis ; you have suf- 
fered too much not to have weighed all 
plans; excuse me if I say that you are 
foolish to talk in this way of your future.” 

“ Future 1 ” cried Norbert angrily, “ why 
do you talk to me of a future, when you 
know that my present life may endure 
twenty years more. My father is young 
still.” 

“ What of that? In three years you 
will be of age, and then you have a right 
to claim your mother’s fortune.” 

Herbert’s astonishment convinced the 
President that the youth was more simple 
than he had supposed. 

“ A man,” continued Dauman, “ can, at 
his majority, dispose of his inheritance. 
Your mother’s fortune will render you in- 
dependent of your father.” 

“ But how should I ever dare to claim 
it.” 

“ It would not be necessary for you to 
make this demand personally. A notary 
would transact the business. Of course, 
you have to wait three years.” 

“ But that is impossible,” answered 
Herbert. “ I must at once resist this 
tyranny.” 

“ Fortunately there are ways ” 

“ Do you think so. President? ” 

“I will point them out. It is done 
every day. Hothing is so common in 
great families. You do not wish to enlist 
as a soldier?” 

“ Ho, I do not wish it, and yet ” 

“ It is the last resource. Marquis. First 
we could address a complaint to the Pro- 
cureur.” 

“ A complaint?” 

“Yes Do you suppose that our laws 
do not provide for the case of a father 
abusing his authority? Tell me, has your 
father ever struck you? ” 

“ Hever.” 

“ Hever mind. We vdll say that your 
father enjoys two millions, and yet you 
are allowed so little of the advantages of 
this wealth, that you are known as the 
Little Champdoce Savage.” 


Herbert started. 

“ Who ever dared to speak of me in 
that way?” he cried, in a terrible voice. 
“ Hame him.” 

This explosion in no way amazed his 
companion. 

“ Your father’s enemies, for he has 
many. His tyranny is felt by others. But 
you, sir, have many friends, and none you 
will find more devoted than myself. You 
have also friends among ladies of your 
own rank. Only yesterday people were 
talking of you in the presence of Made- 
moiselle de Laurebourg, and she turned 
scarlet. Do you know Mademoiselle 
Diane? ” 

The young man colored. 

“I understand,” said Dauman; and 
when you are free — we will see what we 
shall see. And now ” 

But, Horbert whose eyes had chanced to 
rest on the cuckoo clock, started up. 

“ Dinner-time. What on earth will 
father say? ” 

“Are you as much afraid of him as 
that?” 

In another minute, Horbert was driving 
at full speed. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Dauman did not exaggerate when he 
said that Horbert was “ that little Champ- 
doce Savage ; only no one attached insult- 
ing significance to this appellation. 

Opinions in regard to the Due had 
changed singularly. The first time he 
was seen wearing wooden shoes and a 
jacket, all laughed. He cared not one 
sou ; and in the end he was regarded as a 
genius whose obstinacy was called perse- 
verance. The reflection of his millions 
made his cloth vest more lustrous than 
silk or satin. Why should they lavish 
pity on his son? Would not this colossal 
fortune satisfy, eventually, all his desires? 

Mothers were especially interested in 
Horbert. To marry a daughter to the 
Champdoce Savage would be a triumph. 
Unfortunately, his father guarded him 
like a Spanish duenna. 

A certain young girl resolved to do her 
best. This audacious beauty was Diane 
de Laurebourg. She was called the 
beauty of Poiton, and with justice. She 
was tall and fair. Her ivory skin was 
brilliant; her hair was luminous; while 
her smile was irresistible ; but in her eyes 
burned a fire which betrayed the ambition 
of her character. She had been educated 
in a convent, and her parents had wished 
her to take the veil, but called her home 
on her repeated demands; and at the 
earnest solicitation of the Lady Superior, 
who was kept in a constant state of anx- 
iety by a pupil who threatened to scale, 
the walls. 

Her father was wealthy, but she had a1 
brother ten years older than herself, and] 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


163 


the old gentleman declared that he should 
leave every sou to the heir. To his daugh- 
ter he simply promised a trousseau and 
forty thousand francs. 

“ So my child,'’ he said to Diane, “ you 
have come back armed and equipped to 
conquer a husband. Study your cards 
well, and make no mistake, or back you 
go.” 

“ There will be time enough to shut me 
up ten years from now. I like to be near 
you ! ” 

Monsieur de Laurebourg had audibly 
blamed Monsieur de Champdoce for sac- 
rificing his son, but to sacrifice his daugh- 
ter seemed natural. 

1 shall succeed,” thought the girl; “ I 
know it.” 

A friend of her father’s had been talking 
of N.orbert. 

. ‘‘Why should I not marry him?” she 
said to herself, as she heard of his great 
expectations. With wonderful adroitness 
she applied herself to the execution of 
her purpose. To possess two hundred 
thousand livres income and the title of 
Duchess was bliss to think of. How was 
she to encounter JSTorbert? How should 
she tear what she desired from the avari- 
cious Due? 

Before she could decide on anything 
she felt she must see Norbert. He was 
pointed out to her at church, and she was 
struck by the grace of his movements in 
his shabby garments. Her feminine intu- 
ition discovered something of Norbert’s 
sentiments. She saw that he suffered. 
She felt that she loved him already a 
little. When she came out of church she 
had taken a solemn oath to be Norbert’s 
wife. Of this she breathed not one word 
to her parents. She preferred to carry on 
her designs without counsel. Mademoi- 
selle Diane was determined and practical. 

This girl was both prudent and calculat- 
ing. Her frank expression concealed ex- 
traordinary insight, and a perfect appreci- 
ation of social interests. 

She suddenly seemed inspired with 
interest in the poor and to carry them as- 
sistance became her occupation. She was 
met in the lanes carrying soup in a wire 
covered bottle. 

Said her father, “ Diane was evidently 
created to be a Sister of Charity.” 

This gentleman did not notice that Mad- 
emoiselle Diane’s proteges invariably re- 
sided in the vicinity of Champdoce. 

In vain did she wander about, changing 
her hours daily. The Champdoce Savage 
was invisible, nor did he go regularly to 
mass. 

At last an insignificant event changed 
the entire life of the young man. 

A week after the conversation in which 
the Due had confided his hopes to his son, 
he again detained him after dinner, which 
was served at the same table with forty 
farm laborers, who were busy harvesting. 


“ It is unnecessary, my son,” began the 
old gentleman, “for you to go back to 
the laborers.” 

“ But, sir ” 

“Permit me to finish, if you please. 
My confidence to you the other nigut was 
preliminary to the further declaration that 
in future you would not toil as you had 
done. I shall give you duties to fulfil 
which will be less fatiguing, but more 
difficult. You are to act as overseer.” 

Norbert looked up quickly. 

“You are no longer a child, and I wish 
you to become accustomed to independent 
action, so that at my death you may not 
be intoxicated by your liberty.” 

The Due rose and brought forward a 
very beautiful gun. 

“ I am much pleased with you,” he con- 
tinued, “ and this is the token of my sat- 
isfaction. My forester has this morning 
brought me a fine dog, which is also to be 
yours. Hunt as much as you choose. 
As a hunter is exposed to unforeseen ex- 
penses, here is money for you, which I 
beg you to husband, reminding you, at the 
same time, that prodigality will delay the 
moment at which our descendants will re- 
sume their rank. 

The old gentleman talked some time, 
but the son heard nothing. He was too 
stupefied to take the six five-franc pieces 
which the Due held out. 

His father exclaimed : “ At least have 
the grace to thank me ! ” 

Norbert stammered: “You will find 
that I am not ungrateful.” 

The Due turned his back and impatient- 
ly strode away. 

“What does the boy mean?” he mut- 
tered. ‘ ‘ Could the cur6 have been right ? ” 

These indulgences were the result of ad- 
vice given by the Cur6 of Bevron; but 
this relaxation had come too late. His 
hatred against a tyrant was too deep-seated 
to be easily dissipated. What was this 
great concession after all? A gun — 
which was a matter of some thirty francs. 
Were he to be better educated it would be 
different, but unfortunately, there was no 
reason why he would not still be the 
“ Champdoce Savage.” 

Nevertheless Norbert hunted, followed 
by his magnificent Bruno. In this crea- 
ture the youth found a faithful friend. 

He still thought of Dauman. He had 
asked questions, and found that the Presi- 
dent was a most dangerous man, who 
would stop at nothing. Norbert was 
none the less determined to return to him 
for advice. At the same time, his instinct 
warned him of the precipice on which he 
stood. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Dauman was expecting to see him, as 
certain as the bird-catcher, who, having 
carefully arranged his perfidious mirror, 


164 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


crosses his arms, certain that victims will 
appear. Had he non displayed before 
Norbert’s eyes the light of liberty? 

Dauman had his spies everywhere, and 
knew precisely what was going on at the 
chateau. He even knew the precise words 
uttered by the Due in this last conversa- 
tion and was aware of the privileges 
granted to Norbert. He was convinced 
that in this relaxation Monsieur de Champ- 
doce only hastened his son’s revolt. 

Often, at night, he roamed along the 
road, with his pipe in his mouth. On the 
brow of a hill he regularly shook his fist 
at the Chateau de Champdoce, and would 
say, in a hoarse voice: ‘‘He will cornel 
Yes, he will come ! ” 

After another w\eek of indecision, Nor- 
berc came and knocked at the door of his 
father’s enemy. 

From his window Dauman had seen his 
approach. It was with quite as much re- 
spect as before that he received the Mar- 
quis, as he took good care to call him ; but 
he seemed hardly able to say more 
than: “Your very humble servant. Mar- 
quis, your very humble servant.” 

Norbert, who had been led to expect a 
very warm greeting, was disconcerted by 
this coldness, and thought of withdrawing 
but was withheld by vanity. He said to 
himself that he would not be such a fool 
as to go away and accomplish nothing. 

“ 1 wish to consult you. President,’' he 
began. “As I have no experience I de- 
sire to avail myself of yours.” 

The President murmured with an absent 
air : “I am sure, sir — I am sure ” 

“ But,” exclaimed Norbert, “ you must 
feel that you ought to aid me, after what 
you said to me the other day, when you 
told me that there was a third expedient. 
I have come to ask what that may be? ” 

Never was there a more natural air of 
embarrassment than that with which Dau- 
man heard this question. 

“ Do you remember those idle words I 
uttered? ” 

“ Most certainly I do.” 

The rascal was delighted; but he an- 
swered, with a forced smile : “ Oh, you 
know, sir, that a great many things are 
said which mean nothing. Between inten- 
tion and act there is a wide distance. I 
am so outspoken that my tongue is apt to 
get me into trouble.” 

Norbert was no fool, and in his veins 
ran the hot blood of the Champdoce race. 
He dropped his gun on the fioor. 

“ You took me for a fool, then, it seems.” 

“ My dear sir ! ” 

“ And yoa fancy that you can trifle with 
me. You induced me to open my heart; 
but your amusement may cost you dear.” 

“ Monsieur le Marquis ! can it be possi- 
ble that you suppose me guilty of such 
infamy?” 

“ Then what on earth do you expect me 
to think of your conduct? ” 


Dauman hesitated, but all at once ex- 
claimed : “ You will be angry, but I must 
tell you the truth.” 

“ I shall not be angry. Speak without 
fear.” 

“ I am only a poor man, and can’t afford 
to run any risk. What shall 1 gain by en- 
couraging you to brave your father? 
Think of opposing the powerful Due de 
Champdoce! He would take such steps 
that in the t^vinkling of an eye I should 
be popped into prison.” 

“ And why, pray?” asked Norbert. 

“ Have you never studied law at all, 
sir? Good heavens! how negligent pa- 
rents are. You are not nineteen, and I 
know a certain Article 354, which could 
be twisted in such a way that your humble 
servant could be shut up for five years. 
The law makes short work when there is 
any question of a minor who is the son of 
a millionaire. If your father should ever 
discover ” 

“ How could he ever learn it? ” 

Dauman did not answer, and this silence 
so clearly signified to Norbert that he was 
suspected, that the youth indignantly re- 
peated the question. 

“ Your duty to your father is too 
great ” 

“ You think that I would tell him 
all ” 

“ No ; you yourself told me that when he 
looked at you in a certain way, you could 
not resist him.” 

Norbert ’s anger cooled, but he replied 
in a tone of intense bitterness : “ I may 
be a savage, but I cannot become a traitor. 
When I promise to keep a secret neither 
threats nor tortures could extract it from 
me. I fear my father, but I am a Chami)- 
doce and fear no other human being. Do 
you understand me, sir? ” 

“But ” 

“No human being,” interrupted Norbert, 
“ will ever know from me that you have 
ever spoken to me.” 

The President’s countenance regained 
that expression which inspired confidence 
in the young man. 

“One would think,” he said, “ by my 
hesitation, that my object was wrong; 
but it is not my habit to give bad advice ; 
I know the law beside. Behold my 
breviary, my rule of conduct.” 

He took from his desk a book, and brand- 
ished it proudly. All this annoyed Nor- 
bert, who said hastily: “Well then, what 
am I to do?” 

Dauman winked as he answered : “ Noth- 
ing, sir — bide your time, you have only 
three years to wait. Be patient. Your 
father is an old man. Let him nurse his 
hobby for three years more, and ” 

A violent blow from Norbert’s fist on 
the table cut his words short. 

“ If this is all you have to say, I am 
sorry I came ; ” and the young man whis- 
tled to Bruno. 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


165 


“ You are too hasty, sir,” said the Pres- 
ident. 

The young man hesitated. “Go on, 
then,” he said, abruptly. 

Dauman continued in a low, steady 
voice. “ Please notice, sir, that while I 
advise you to manage your father a little, 
I wish to see 3mu both happy. I am like 
a justice of the peace who seeks to recon- 
cile two adversaries. Can you not, while 
seeming to be submissive, carry out your 
own plan of life? Many young persons 
are precisely in your position.” 

Norbert came back into the centre of 
the room. 

“You have more liberty already, I 
think,” continued Dauman. “ Does your 
father know you employ it?” 

“ What coiild I do but hunt? ” 

“I don’t know, but I know what I 
would do at your age.” 

“ What would you do?” 

“ Well, first I would stay at the chateau 
enough not to put papa on the track. The 
rest of the time I would spend in Poitiers, 
which is a very pleasant town. I would 
take a nice apartment, where I could be 
my own master. At Champdoce I would 
wear my wooden shoes, but at Poitiers I 
would wear clothes made by the best tail- 
ors. I would find some jolly companions 
among the students ; 1 would have friends 
male and female; dance, sing and drink 
punch. I should experiment in all things, 
so that ” 

He hesitated, and then asked abruptly : 

“There ought to be some fast horses 
among those your father has raised? Very 
well, then; why not take one for your 
own use. In the night, when you are 
supposed to be sound asleep, you can slip 
quietly out, slip the bridle on your horse, 
and in a wink you are in the town. Dress 
yourself like the handsome young lord 
you are, and join your friends. If you 
choose not to go back the next day, the 
servants will report to your father that 
you are out hunting.” 

Norbert was naturally straightforward. 
The idea of duplicity was intensely repug- 
nant, and yet this was the natural result 
of oppression. 

On the other hand, the coarse picture 
drawn by Dauman appealed to his imagi- 
nation witli such force that he shivered, 
while his eyes sparkled. 

“ What is there to prevent your doing 
this?” asked Dauman, insidious^. 

“ The lack of money,” he sighed. Much 
would be needed, and I have none. If I 
ask my father he will refuse, and besides 

99 

“ Have you no friends who will oblige 
you for three years? ” 

“ None whatever.” 

And Norbert, overwhelmed by a sense 
of his powerlessness, dropped heavily on 
a chair. Dauman seemed to be so buried 
in thought, a spectator would have fancied 


that he spoke with the greatest reluctance, 
when he said : 

“No, I cannot see you so unhappy 
without doing my best to serve you. A 
man is a fool who puts his hand between 
the bark and the tree, but some one shall 
lend you what you want.” 

“ You, President?” 

“Unfortunately, no. I am only a poor 
devil ; but I have the confidence of several 
of the farmers hereabouts, who bring me 
their savings. Why should I not secure 
them for you?” 

Norbert caught his breath. “ Can this 
be done?” he asked, anxiously. 

“Yes, sir. Only you understand, of 
course, that it will cost you dear. The in- 
terest will be far above the legal rate, on 
account of the risk incurred. The law 
does not recognize such transactions, and 
I myself do not approve them. In your 
place, I should not borrow this money, 
but wait until some friend can accommo- 
date you.” 

“I have no friends,” was Norbert’s 
reply. 

Dauman shrugged his shoulder, which 
gesture clearly signified : “ As you will ; 
I have done my duty;” and then said 
aloud : “ I can understand, sir, that this 
must seem to you a very trilling transac- 
tion, in view of the wealth that must be 
yours one of these days.” 

Dauman explained the conditions of the 
loan. At each clause he would stop and 
say : “ Do you understand? ” 

Norbert understood so well that it was 
with an absolute explosion of joy that, 
in exchange for two thousand francs, he 
signed two notes of four thousand francs 
each, which were held by two farmers 
who were entirely under the thumb of 
Dauman. 

Norbert also gave his word that he 
would never disclose to any one that the 
President had anything to do with the 
transaction. 

“ Prudence, Marquis ! That must be the 
rule of your life. Come here only after 
dark.” 

This was Dauman’s last advice to his 
client ; and as he stood alone in his office, 
he read the notes over carefully which 
Norbert had given in exchange for the 
money. Yes, he had forgotten nothing. 
His knowledge of the law had served him 
well. He intended to let Norbert have all 
his savings, forty thousand francs, and 
when the 3mung man came into possession 
of his property, Dauman would turn round 
and demand payment. It is true that all 
this fine plan hung on Norbert’s discretion 
for at the first suspicion of it the Duo 
could turn around and break up every- 
thing. Dauman, however, did not fear 
Norbert.- 

Norbert, as he walked along the road, 
was compelled to put his hand in his 
pocket and feel the crisp silky folds of the 


166 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


bank-notes to satisfy himself that it was 
not all a dream. That night seemed a 
year long ; and at day-break, with his gun 
and dog, he strode along the road to Poi- 
tiers. 

I will hire a small apartment ; and will 
make the acquaintance of some of the 
students ! ” 

In fact, he would do precisely what 
Dauman had advised. 

Norbert reached Poitiers, where he had 
never been but once, and found himself as 
frightened as a bird that knows not how 
to use its wings. 

He sauntered alon^ the streets, without 
the shadow of an idea what means to 
adopt to gain his ends. 

Finally, with infinite shame and morti- 
fication, he went to the inn where he had 
been with his father, and, after an unsat- 
isfactory breakfast, returned to Champ- 
doce as sad as he had been gay. 

Late that evening he saw Dauman, who 
put him in communication with a friend 
of his, who, for a good commission, 
piloted the young savage about, hired 
furnished apartments, and took him to a 
tailor, where Norbert ordered clothes to 
the amount of some five hundred francs. 
Then he thought himself on the high road 
to the gratification of his desires ; but alas ! 
compared to these the reality seemed cold 
and repulsive. 

His timidity and ignorance paralyzed 
him. He needed a friend. Where was 
one to be found? 

One evening he entered the Cafd Cas- 
telle. It was a long vacation, but several 
students were there, and he was rather 
shocked at their noisy gayety. He hastily 
withdrew, and spent the hours of his 
stolen liberty sadly in his apartment, with 
Bruno, who would have preferred the open 
fields. He had enjoyed only five evenings, 
and these he had spent at the theatre ; but 
these five evenings did not repay him for 
the falsehoods and terror in which he 
lived. 

Monsieur de Champdoce had noticed his 
son’s absence ; but his surmises were far 
from the truth. One morning he rallied 
Norbert on his^unsuccessful hunting. 

Boy, do your best to-day. Bring 
home some game, for we shall have a 
friend to dinner.” 

‘ • To dinner ! Here ? ” 

'‘Yes,” said Monsieur de Champdoce, 
repressing a smile, “yes, here! Monsieur 
de Puymandour is coming. The dining- 
room must be opened and put in order. 

I must certainly kill something,” said 
Norbert. 

But this was easier said than done. 
About two o’clock, however, he discov- 
ered an imprudent rabbit near a hedge. 
He fired — heard a shriek of agony — and 
Bruno dashed into the hedge, barking 
furiously. 


CHAPTEE XXXII. 

Diane de LAUREBOURa was the veriest 
woman that ever breathed. 

This artless girl, occupied apparently 
by a thousand whims, concealed under an 
appearance of frivolity an iron will, and 
would have died before renouncing the 
project she had conceived of becoming the 
Duchess de Champdoce. 

All her rambles had been useless. The 
weather was uncertain, and soon her long 
strolls would be impracticable. 

“ The day must come,” she would say 
to herself, “ when the invisible prince will 
appear ! ” 

The day came. It was the middle of 
November, and singularly soft and mild 
for the se^'^ion. The sky was blue, and 
the few leaves on the trees fiuttered slowly, 
while the blackbirds sang in the hedges. 

Diane de Laurebourg was slowly walk- 
ing along the wood path leading to Mussi- 
dan. Suddenly she heard a crackling of 
branches ; she turned, and all the blood in 
her body seemed suddenly to rush to her 
heart, for through an opening in the hedge 
she caught sight of the man who for two 
months had occupied each waking thought. 

Norbert was watching something with 
all the attention of a sportsman with his 
finger on the trigger of his gun. 

She faintly realized the distance between 
intentions and facts, and all the phantas- 
magoria of her imagination vanished. 
Here was the very occasion for which she 
had so long and patiently watched, and 
yet she could draw no advantage from it. 

What would happen? Norbert would 
pass her; he would bow to her; she 
would reply with an inclination of the 
head; and then she might wait another 
two months for a second meeting. Just 
as she was deciding to make some heroic 
effort, she saw Norbert lower his gun. 
She tried to call to him, but she could not, 

A sharp pain, like the prick of a red hot 
needle, passed through her fiesh just above 
her ancle. She raised her arms with a 
shriek, and sank on the path. She did not 
lose consciousness for she heard a shriek in 
response to her own, and a crash among 
the under-brush. Presently she felt a hot 
breath on her face, and then the touch of 
something cold and damp. She opened 
her eyes and saw Bruno licking her hands. 
At the same moment the hedge was tom 
apart and Norbert appeared before her. 

She realized the advantages of her posi- 
tion and closed her eyes. 

Norbert, as he stood over this fair crea- 
ture, lying white and motionless on the 
turf, felt as if he were going mad. He 
had killed Mademoiselle de Laurebourg. 
His first impulse was to take to his heels. 
His second was to aid his victim. 

He knelt at the girl’s side, and learned 
to his joy that she was not dead. He 
raised that lovely head. 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


167 


Mademoiselle ! speak to me ! ” 

She was absorbed in returning thanks to 
Heaven for her granted prayer. Present- 
ly she stirred, and Norbert uttered an ex- 
clamation of joy. Then she slowly raised 
her white lids and looked at Norbert with 
the surprise of a person just roused from 
sleep. 

It is I,” stammered the poor fellow — 
‘‘ Norbert de Champdoce. Will you par- 
don me? Are you suffering? ” 

The young lady pitied him. She gently 
repulsed the arm that was around her, and 
said, gently: “it is for me to beg your 
pardon, sir, for fainting in this foolish 
way, for I am really more frightened than 
hurt.” 

Norbert thought heaven had opened be- 
fore him. 

“ Let me go for help? ” 

‘‘By no means. It is a mere scratch;” 
and she drew her skirt a little aside and 
showed a foot that would have turned a 
steadier head than Norbert’s. 

“Look I” she said, ‘"it is there;” and 
she showed a spot of blood on her fine 
white stocking. 

Seeing this, Norbert’s fright increased. 
He started up. 

“ I will run to the chateau,” he said, 
“ and in less than an hour ” 

“ No, you will do nothing of the kind,” 
interrupted the young girl. “It is noth- 
ing. Look I I can move my foot perfectly 
well.” 

“ But I beg of you ” 

“ Hush ! we will soon see what it is ;” 
and, she examined what she called her 
frightful wound. 

It was as she had said — nothing. Two 
shot had struck her — one had grazed the 
skin only, the other had lodged in the 
flesh ; but it was on the surface. 

“You must have a surgeon.” 

“For that? No it is not worth the 
trouble ! ” And with the point of her 
knife she loosened the tiny shot, which 
dropped on the ground. 

Norbert stood holding his breath, like a 
child who is putting his third story on his 
card house, and looked at this beautiful 
creature. He had never heard a voice like 
that. He had never seen anything so 
lovely. A tear trembled on her lashes, 
while her skin was so clear that the blue 
veins could be counted. With what won- 
derful grace those curls loosened in her 
fall. 

In the meantime Diane had torn her 
handkerchief into four strips, which she 
tied around her wound. 

“ Now I am all right,” she said, gayly, 
at the same time extending her pretty, 
slender hands to Norbert that he might 
assist her to rise. Once on her feet she 
took several steps with a slight limp. 

“You are suffering!” cried Norbert in 
despair. 

•‘ No, I am not, indeed, and this evening I 


shall not even think of it.” And she 
laughed like a merry school-girl, as with 
a little teasing air she added: “this is a 
droll meeting. Marquis.” 

Norbert was struck by the way in which 
Diane uttered the word Marquis, for no 
one save Dauman had ever before given 
him this title. 

“ She does not despise me ! ” he thought. 

“ This tragic-comic adventure will be a 
lesson to me. Mamma always insists on 
my keeping on the highway, but I prefer 
this path, with its lovely view.” 

She extended her hand, and it seemed 
to Norbert that a curtain rose as at the 
theatre, and that he saw for the first time 
the familiar scenery. 

"‘I come this way nearly every day,” 
continued Diane, “although it is very 
wrong to disobey my mother. I go to 
see La Besson. Poor woman, she is dying 
of consumption. I carry her meat and 
soup occasionally.” 

It was with the air of a daughter of 
Saint Vincent de Paul that she spoke. In 
Norbert’s opinion, only wings were lack- 
ing. 

“The poor woman,” she continued, 
“has three children; their father does 
nothing for them, for he drinks all he 
earns.” 

It was to this very Besson that Nor- 
bert had made a note of four thousand 
francs. He was one of the two men, who, 
according to Dauman, desired to invest 
their savings ; but Norbert did not notice 
this. She had already placed her basket 
on her arm. 

“Before leaving you,” she said, with 
real hesitation, “I should like so much — 
if I dared — to ask a favor ” 

“ A favor of me, mademoiselle?” 

“You will oblige me,” she resumed, “if 
you say nothing of this accident to any 
one. Should it reach the ears of my par- 
ents, they would be very anxious, and 
would, undoubtedly, deprive me of the 
little liberty which they now accord me.” 

“ I will never mention this terrible mis- 
fortune which has come to me, mademoi- 
selle,” he answered. 

“Thanks, Marquis,” interrupted made- 
moiselle, with a coquettish courtesy. “And 
another time let me advise you, belore you 
shoot, to ascertain that no one is in the 
path ! ” 

As she turned and departed, there was 
no limp in the happy feet that lightly trod 
the earth. She had read Norbert' s eyes 
as an open book; the game was in her 
own hands. Women have a sixth sense 
which reveals to them things hidden from 
the grosser intelligences of men. 

“No more uncertainty! I shall be the 
Duchess de Champdoce,” 

How thankful she was for that shot. 

She had told Norbert in five careless 
sentences what she wished him to know. 
To tell him that she went daily over this 


168 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


path, was to give him to understand that 
she should not be surprised did she hap- 
pen to meet him. 

To speak of her liberty was to say to 
him that she was not held to strict account 
for the minutes she spent away from her 
paternal roof. 

She was certain that Norbert had not 
lost one word. There was no obstacle ex- 
cept the Due de Champdoce. Looking 
back, she sawNorbert standing just as she 
had left him, as motionless as the trees 
around him. 

The poor boy felt, as Diane left him, as 
if she took with her all his vitality. Had 
he been dreaming? He turned, and drop- 
ping on his knees, found on the path the 
tiny shot that had wounded Diane, then 
slowly took his way back to the chateau. 

To his great surprise, when he entered 
the court-yard he found the great door 
open, and from the balcony, he heard his 
father call out gayly : 

‘‘ Hurry up, my boy, that I may present 
you to our guest ! ” 


CHAPTER XXXIir. 

Since the death of the unfortunate 
Duchesse all except the lower floor had 
been rigorously closed, but the rooms 
above were always kept in such order that 
they could be thrown open for guests at 
any moment. 

The dining room was really superb, with 
its huge sideboards of carved black-oak, 
incrusted with brass, filled with plate bear- 
ing the Champdoce arms. All was on a 
grand scale. 

When Xorbert entered this room, he saw 
near the window a man who was short 
and stout, red-faced and thick-lipped, bald, 
with protruding eyes, wearing a mous- 
tache and imperial. He was carefully 
dressed, and had a man of taste for a tail- 
or ; but, in spite of all this, he was ordi- 
nary looking. 

When Xorbert appeared his father took 
him by the arm. 

This is my son, the Marquis de Champ- 
doce, Marquis, this is the Count de Puy- 
mandour. 

Xever before had Xorbert heard his 
father give him the title of Marquis. 
What did it mean, this ceremonious presen- 
tation by the Due, whose features were 
working with emotion? 

The great clock in the hall, which had 
not been wound up for fifteen years, now 
struck, and instantly a groom of the 
-chambers appeared, bringing with many 
precautions an enormous silver soup tureen 
which he placed on the table, around 
which the small party of three seated 
themselves at once. 

This dinner in this enormous room 
would have been a little dreary but for 
the fund of anecdote and adventure pos- 
sessed by Monsieur de Puymandour, 


which he told in a jolly, but vulgar tone, 
interpersed with hearty laughs. 

As he talked, he ate, and went into 
ecstacies over the excellence of the wine, 
which the Due himself had taken out of his 
cellar, where he had laid in a large supply 
intended for his descendants. The Due de 
Champdoce, generally so silent and 
morose, smiled benignantly, and seemed 
to greatly enjoy his guest's jokes. 

Was this the politeness of an Amphit- 
ryon merely? Was his approbation alto- 
gether sincere, or did his graciousness 
conceal an arriere-pensee? To make up 
his mind on this point, was to Xorbert a 
matter of great difficulty; although not 
endowed with much penetration, he had 
studied his father as a slave studies his 
master, and he knew precisely what sub- 
jects pleased and irritated him. 

Monsieur de Puymandour lived in a 
charming house with his daughter. Made- 
moiselle Marie. This house stood less 
than a league from Champdoce. Hospit- 
ality was his great virtue and delight, and 
he received magnificently ; but the people 
in the neighborhood, while they graciously 
accepted his fine dinners, did not hesitate 
to say while they were digesting them 
that Puymandour was a rascal ” — or 
‘•Puymandour was a robber.” Had it 
been proved that he had robbed the mail- 
coaches on the highway, he could not have 
been spoken of with greater contempt. 

But he was rich, he had at least five 
millions. Was not this a reason for hat- 
ing him? And yet the simple truth was 
that Monsieur de Puymandour was a 
worthy man, who had made his fortune in 
legitimate trade in wool on the Spanish 
frontiers. 

He had lived happy and respected at 
Orthez, his native town, when one morn- 
ing he awoke with the sudden desire for a 
title, and thenceforward his life was em- 
bittered. 

He took his name of Puymandour from 
one of his estates. His title of count he 
had purchased in Italy, and his coat of 
arms he had ordered from Paris, and 
thenceforward he had one overwhelming 
anxiety, to be or to appear noble. 

To dine with this terrible Due de Champ- 
doce, who never received any one at Ifis 
table, was to receive an indisputable brevet 
of nobility. 

Ten o’clock struck, and he talked of 
leaving, and the Due insisted in going 
down the avenue as far as the road with 
him, while Norbert, walking on the other 
side, a little in the rear caught a few 
words. 

“Yes,” said De Puymandour, “I will 
give a round million. 

Then came a sentence from the Due, in 
which the word millions and thousands 
occurred. But what did this matter to 
Xorbert, who was leagues away from this 
commonplace discussion. 


THE SLAVES OF FAJRIS. 


169 


Since the sudden apparition of that 
fair young girl, he had thought of noth- 
ing else, and he stopped when his father 
did, and mechanically said good-night to 
their guest. 

When the Due was certain that his voice 
could not be heard, he took his son’s arm, 
and his long repressed ire broke loose. 

This man,’' he exclaimed, “ is airepre- 
sentative of our new aristocracy, and of 
the best among them, too. Mark that! 
vain buffoon as he is, he is intelligent and 
honest. In a hundred years the descen- 
dants of these men, better educated than 
their progenitors, will constitute a new 
aristocracy as greedy of prerogatives and 
influence as these of ours. 

For an hour Monsieur de Champdoce 
enlarged on this favorite theme; but he 
might have talked all night without inter- 
ruption from his son, who did not even 
hear him, for he was goin^ over in his 
mind the most minute details of the ad- 
venture of the morning. He heard again 
that rippling laugh and harmonious voic e 
— but had he himself not been stupid, 
dull, and even ridiculous? What opinion 
had she formed of him ? 

Meanwhile, Norbert had by no means 
forgotten that Mademoiselle Diane had 
told him that she visited daily the path 
where he had met her. There, then, he 
might hope to meet her again. It seemed 
to him that he had much to say to her ; 
but as he felt that he could not be sure 
that his timidity would not deprive him of 
speech, he would write to her. 

But what could he say? He wrote that 
night and destroyed fifty letters. To say 

I love you ” alone was bold and abrupt, 
and he cudgelled his brains to find ah 
equivalent for this phrase, and at last con- 
sidered that he had composed a master- 
piece. He threw himself upon his bed, 
and after an early cup of coffee, he took 
his gun, and whistling to Bruno, took his 
way to the precise spot where the day 
before he had seen Mademoiselle Diane 
lying unconscious. 

Alas! he waited in vain. Hour after 
hour elapsed, while he strode up and down 
in feverish impatience, but she came not. 
He would have been much surprised had 
he been told that the young lady was 
obeying the dictates of policy in not ap- 
pearing. 

The following day she might again have 
departed without permitting Norbert to 
see her but for a fortunate circumstance. 
I^orbert had come, of course, again to this 
place, which he regarded as sacred, and 
had swoin to revisit daily until he had 
seen his divinity. 

He was seated on the turf, and Bruno 
lay at his feet. Just as Mademoiselle de 
Laurebourg reached the turning from the 
road, whence she could see the path, the 
dog set nted her. He barked and rushed 
joyously to meet her. 


Of course there was nothing for her to 
do then but to come boldly on. Norbert 
had started up at the first sound made by 
his dog, but it took him a minute before 
he reached Diane, who colored deeply as 
she wondered if it were possible that he 
could have seen her hiding and watching 
him. He in his turn was equally embar- 
rassed. They stood speechless for a mo- 
ment, he holding in his hand his famous 
letter. 

“ If I dare appear before you, mademoi- 
selle,” he said, in that veiled voice which 
often betrays profound emotion, it is be- 
cause I have been devoured by anxiety to 
know how you were. How did you re- 
gain Laurebourg, wounded as you were? ” 

He stopped, waiting for some word of 
encouragement that came not. He then 
went on : 

‘‘I was crazy to go to the chateau to 
ask about you, but you had forbidden me 
to speak of your unfortunate accident, and 
I could not disobey you.” 

‘‘ Many thanks,” stammered Diane. 

“Yesterday,” continued Norbert. “I 
spent the entire day here. Will you for- 
give this folly ? I said that it was barely 
possible that, having seen my anxiety, you 
would take pity on me, and condescend 


Then he stopped, aghast at his own pre- 
sumption, but Diane did not appear to be 
in the slightest degree appalled. 

“Yesterday,” she said, with a most in- 
nocent air, ‘‘ I was kept at home by my 
mother.” 

“ For two days,” he said, “ I have seen 
nothing but you, senseless and stretched 
on the ground. I have felt as if I had 
committed a terrible crime. I cannot for- 
get how white you were, and how I lifted 
your head and held it on my arm. It lay 
there but a moment, and yet your hair 
imparted to my clothing a delicious per- 
fume, which intoxicates me still.” 

“You must not, Marquis — you must 
not!” murmured Diane. These words 
were so softly said that Norbert did not 
hear them, and he continued : “ When you 
were here the other day,” he said, “I was 
so overwhelmed that I could not express 
what I felt ; but as soon as you had gone, 
it seemed to me that it grew dark all at 
once. 

He shivered at the remembrance of this 
sensation which he described. 

“Then,” he said, “I looked for that 
tiny shot which might have killed you, 
and at last I discovered it, and took it 
home with me. All the treasures of this 
earth are as nothing compared with that 
holy relic ! ” 

Diane turned away her head to conceal 
the joy shining in her eyes. 

“ Pardon me, mademoiselle,” he said, in 
despair, “ pardon me, if I have offended 
you. You would pity me if you could 
form any idea of the life I have hitherto 


170 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


led. When I beheld you I at once felt 
that I had found a woman who might be 
interested in my fate ; and I said to myself 
that in exchange for her interest and com- 
passion my very life would be too little to 
give I ” 

see,” continued Norbert in a des- 
pondent tone, that I was mad — simply 
mad ! And now I despair I ” 

‘‘Ah, Marquis! despair is not a word 
for us to use at our age.” 

The look which accompanied these 
words was significant enough to restore 
courage to i^orbert. 

“Do not trifle with me, mademoiselle,” 
he said, “ do not trifle with me, it would 
be too cruel.” 

Her head dropped, and he fell on his 
knees, and snatching her hands, covered 
them with kisses. Pale, and with com- 
pressed lips, Mademoiselle Diane felt her- 
self carried away by this whirlwind of 
passion. She panted for breath, and her 
hands trembled. She found herself caught 
in the snare which she had herself spread 
for another. 

Meanwhile she felt the necessity of 
bringing the interview to a close. 

“ I am forgetting my poor people ! ” 
she exclaimed. 

“If I could only go with you, made- 
moiselle I ” 

“You may, if you will consent to walk 
fast.” 

It is unquestionably true that one’s 
whole life hinges on some apparently 
trivial circumstance. And, if on this very 
day, Diane had gone to see La Besson, 
Norbert, who was with her, would have 
been put on his guard against Dauman. 

Unfortunately, it was an old woman in 
the next parish to whom she carried as- 
sistance that morning. Norbert looked 
on while she fulfilled the mission of a 
Sister of Charity, and as he still had about 
him the money he had hired he left two 
louis on the table when he went out. 

Diane laid her finger on her lips, and 
with the one word, “ To-morrow ! ” turned 
into the path which led her directly home. 

Then Norbert had time to recover in 
part his self-possession, which was shaken, 
like the trees in an autumnal gale, by the 
whirlwind of passion which had over- 
whelmed him. 

Yes, this beautiful girl loved him ; and 
for her he was ready to shed his heart’s 
blood. He tore up the letter he had writ- 
ten with so much labor, for in spite of his 
inexperience, he felt that the girl’s prom- 
ise to come the next day amounted to an 
avowal. 

From this moment he was in no degree 
disquieted by the future, for he felt as- 
sured of the protection of Providence as 
he reviewed the strange circumstances of 
his meeting with Mademoiselle de Laure- 
bourg. It never entered his mind that 
this frank-eyed girl had her share in the 


work of this Providence to whom he was 
so grateful. 

He was so gay and light-hearted that 
night at supper that even his father’s at- 
tention was attracted. 

“ I wager a gold piece, my boy, that 
you have been successful in your day’s 
sport ! ” exclaimed the Due. 

“You are right, sir,” answered Nor- 
bert, audaciously. 

Oddly enough, however, his father 
asked no further questions. But as Nor- 
bert felt he could not rely on this con- 
tinued indifference, he stopped the next 
day on his way home, and bought some 
quail and a hare. 

He waited for a half hour at the rendez- 
vous before Bruno’s joyous greeting 
warned him that Diane was coming. 

She was very pale, and the dark circles 
around her eyes testified to the anxiety 
which had kept her awake all night. Her 
common sense showed her as soon as she 
had left Norbert the risk she was running, 
and the extent of her imprudence. It was 
with her entire future she was trifling, 
and with her reputation ; with all, in fact, 
which a young girl holds, and should 
hold most dear. 

For a moment she thought of confiding 
in her parents. 

‘^No,” she said, rejecting this salutary 
inspiration, “no, they would never un- 
derstand me. My father would argue 
that the avaricious Due de Champdoce 
would never give his consent. They 
would never permit me to leave the cha- 
teau, and would, perhaps, even send me 
back to the convent.” 

“ It would be the height of weakness to 
stop now,” she murmured. “The worst 
that can happen to me is to be shut up in 
a convent with a tarnished reputation. 
Ah ! well, I should prefer that than to go 
back now and shut out this ray of hope ! ” 

She started forth, and as she advanced 
confidence returned to her, and the sight 
of Norbert brought back all her joy and 
hopefulness again. 

They talked together for some time in 
this place, which was now so dear to them 
both, and only the footsteps of a passing 
peasant recalled Diane to a sense of her 
imprudence. 

Had she not her poor to visit? To neg- 
lect them now would be to throw aside all 
excuse for liberty of action. Norbert ac- 
companied her again, as on the previous 
day, and was even bold enough to offer 
his arm, on which she lightly leaned when 
the path grew steep or slippery. 

For days this went on, and the young 
lovers met in the same place, and after a 
short conversation would walk together. 
They were met more than once by the 
peasants of the neighborhood — and there 
are as scandalous tongues in Poitou as 
elsewhere. 

This was a terrible imprudence, which 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


171 


Diane fully understood, but it was part of 
her plan to allow herself to be slightly 
compromised — but her conduct with her 
lover was decorum itself. 

Unfortunately it was now the very last 
of November, and cold weather was near 
at hand. One morning, when Norbert 
rose, he found an icy wind tearing the 
branches from the trees, and torrents of 
rain falling. He knew very well that 
Mademoiselle Diane would not be per- 
mitted to go out in such weather as this, 
and he sadly established himself with a 
book by the huge chimney in the large 
hall. 

Mademoiselle de Laurebourg had come 
out, however, but in a carriage, to call on 
a poor widow who lived in a miserable 
hut at the entrance of the village. This 
poor woman had broken her leg the pre- 
vious week, and they had only twelve 
sous, earned daily by her daughter Fran- 
coise, on which to live. 

‘‘What has happened? ” asked the young 
lady. 

The widow showed her a stamped paper, 
and with lamentable volubility recounted 
how she owed one hundred and thirty 
crowns, that she could no longer pay the 
interest, and that her two cows would be 
seized and sold, and that this would be 
the end of everything. 

“ It was the President,” she added, “that 
rascal of a Dauman, who was the cause of 
all this trouble.” 

The woman went on to say that when 
she went to ask a delay, that the scoffing 
answer came back that if she sent her 
daughter to him, and if she was pretty, 
he might be induced to grant her request. 

This tale shocked Mademoiselle de 
Laui’ebourg. Her eyes flashed. 

“I will see this man!” she exclaimed, 
“ and will come back here at once.” 

She hastened to the carriage, bade the 
coachman drive fast, and in ten minutes 
was at the “President’s.” 

Dauman was writing at his desk, when 
the woman he dignifled by the name of 
house-keeper showed Diane into his office. 

He started up, pushed a chair toward 
her, and with his velvet cap in his hand, 
bowed to the very ground. 

Diane,, although she knew nothing of 
this man’s reputation, was not as artless 
as Norbert, and was not imposed on by 
this manifestation of servile deference. 

She waved away the chair with a dis- 
dainful gesture, and that one solitary act 
made him an enemy for life. 

“I have come, sir,” she said in that 
cold voice invariably adopted by even 
young girls of rank when they address 
their inferiors — “I have come from the 
Widow Rouleau.” 

“ Ah I you know that poor woman? ” 

“ Yes, and am much interested in her.” 

“ You are very kind,” said the President 
with a hateful smile. 


“ This poor woman is in the greatest 
distress. She is confined to her bed, with- 
ont any resources, and with a broken 
limb.” 

“ Yes; I heard of her accident.” 

“ And yet you send her a stamped paper 
threatening to seize her two cows, which 
are all she owns in this world.” 

Dauman looked very compassionate. 

“ Poor thing! ” he said; “ I have often 
heard that misfortunes never come alone.” 

Mademoiselle Diane was aghast at this 
cool impudence. 

“ It seems to me,” she said, coldly, 
“ that this last misfortune can only be at- 
tributed to you. At least, so I am told.” 

“ Can it be possible? ” 

“Who, but you, then, is it who perse- 
cutes this poor widow? ” 

“I!” he cried, striking his breast with 
his closed fist. “Do you ask if it be I? 
Ah ! Mademoiselle, why do you listen to 
these vipers’ tongues? To make a long 
story short, however, this woman borrowed 
of a man — a Mussidan — two sacks of 
wheat and one of potatoes. * A month 
later she bought of this same man, on 
credit, three sheep ; then something more. 
All this comes to — I don’t know how 
much. 

“ One hundred and thirty crowns, I be- 
lieve.” 

“ I dare say. At all events, she prom- 
ised over and over again to pay, and fin- 
ally the man became impatient. Of course 
you will admit that he needed his money. 
At last, he came to me, I talked to him of 
patience, but I might as well have talked 
to the wind. He declared if I did not do 
as he desired, that he would go elsewhere. 
What could I say? He had the law, too, 
on his own side. If,” he continued, in 
a low voice, almost as if talking to him- 
self — “if I could only find a way of get- 
ting the poor creature out of this trouble 
— but it would be impossible without 
money. If I had any, I could arrange it 
all!” 

He opened a drawer and pulled out 
about fifty francs. 

“ This is all I have,” he said, mourn- 
fully. 

“ But I am very stupid ! ” he exclaimed, 
“ for of course, now that this widow has a 
rich young lady interested in her, she is 
safe ! ” 

“ I will speak to my father,” she said, 
in a tone that told very clearly that she 
had small hope of success. 

The President’s countenance fell. 

“ To the Marquis de Laurebourg? ” he 
said. “ If I dared advise you, I should 
say that it would be better to apply to 
some family friend — to Monsieur Norbert 
de Champdoce, for example.” “ I know,” 
he continued, “that the Due does not 
keep his son’s pocket any too full of gold, 
but the young man need have no difficulty 
in getting all he wants, as it will not bo 


172 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


long before he is of age, without counting, 
either, on the marriage, which before then 
will put an enormous fortune into his 
hands.” 

Diane tumbled head over heels into the 
trap he laid for her. 

A marriage I ” she exclaimed. 

‘‘ 1 know nothing about it, of course. 
I only know that if the young man under- 
takes to marry against his father’s consent 
that he must wait at least six years. 

‘‘Six years! He will be of age in fif- 
teen months.” 

What of that? To marry against his 
parents, will, a young man must be twen- 
ty-five, and not twenty-one.” 

This blow was so unexpected that Diane 
lost her head. 

“Impossible!” she cried. “Are you 
not mistaken? ” 

The President smiled triumphantly. 

“I am never mistaken ! ” he said, as he 
calmly proceeded to open his book, which 
he laid before the young lady. 

While she read the passage he pointed 
out, he watched her as a cat watches a 
bird. 

Diane was entirely convinced. 

“After all,” she said, “what does it 
matter to me? I will speak to my father 
in regard to this woman. Good-morning.” 

She went out with a painful effort, for 
her limbs tottered under her. 

He went with her to the door, and as he 
returned, he said, rubbing his hands : 

“Things are warming, certainly.” 

It was necessary, he felt, for him to 
have further information. Could he not 
extort this from Norbert? Would it not 
also be advisable for him to see the sheriff 
himself in regard to the Widow Rouleau, 
and arrange matters in such a way as to 
secure another interview with Mademoi- 
selle de Laurebourg, when he could play 
the part of a generous man, and in this 
way win the confidence of the poor girl ! 

When Diane was alone in the carrfage, 
she abandoned herself to a paroxysm of 
tears and despair. This fatal foresight of 
the law-makers had rendered all her cal- 
culations futile. She had said to herself ; 

“The Due de Champdoce will never re- 
ceive me as his daughter-in-law, with my 
poor little dowry; but as soon as Norbert 
is of age he cun marry me, notwithstand- 
ing his father, and we shall not have much 
more than a year to wait.” 

Now, instead of this she saw six years 
of dreary suspense stretching before her, 
and possibly a final defeat. She remem- 
bered Dauman's phrase in regard to the 
Due : “ As sturdy as an oak.” 

She sobbed aloud, for the frail edifice 
of her hopes was shattered like a glass 
mirror under a hammer — broke into a 
thousand bits. But her energy was too 
innate to fail her now. She was not one 
of those persons who, repulsed by the 
first obstacle, turn back and retrace their 


steps. She had in no degree decided what 
to do, but she was fully determined to 
carry the day. It was of the first impor- 
tance to see Norbert as soon as possible. 
She entered the widow’s presence hastily. 

“ I have seen the President,” she said. 
“Do not be troubled; all will be ar- 
ranged.” 

She cut short all her thanks. 

“ Give me a bit of paper on which I can 
write,” she said. And, standing by the 
window, she wrote with a pencil on a 
dirty bit of paper the following lines : 

“ She would, perhaps, have gone there 
in spite of the storm if she had not been 
occupied with the business of a poor 
sick woman. This same business will 
compel her to go to-morrow at two, no 
matter what the weather may be, to see a 
man named Dauman, at his house.” 

Mademoiselle Diane folded her note. 

“ This must be^ taken,” she said, “ at 
once to Monsieur Norbert de Champdoce.’^ 

It so happened that Francoise had made 
a blouse for one of the farm servants at 
Champdoce, and therefore had an excuse, 
and willingly undertook the errand. 

The next day, consequently, in a driving 
rainstorm, just about two o'clock, Nor- 
bert appeared in Dauman's office pretend- 
ing that he had exhausted his funds and 
needed more money. 

He, too, poor boy, had indulged in the 
hope of a comparatively early marriage. 
He dared not allude to these hopes to hia 
father. 

Was not his fate signed and sealed, as it 
were, by this inexorable will? After con- 
demning him to a most unhappy child- 
hood and youth, he would be compelled to 
marry a woman whom he should loathe. 
Had not the Due said to him : 

“ You will marry a woman of wealth.” 

But here Norbert swore all his submis- 
sion should end — he would die sooner 
than yield ; and he counted on Dauman’s 
assistance. He was about to introduce 
this point, when a carriage stopped at the 
door, and Mademoiselle de Laurebourg 
was shown in. 

At one glance Dauman realized the po- 
sition, and cut short ail pretense of aston- 
ishment on the part of the young people, 
hastening to explain to Diane what he had 
done in regard to the Rouleau matter. 

“ The sheriff,” he said, “ consents to de- 
lay proceedings — I can show you his 
letter.” 

He turned and looked for this letter, 
with as much perseverance as if it had an 
existence other than in his imagination. 

*"I cannot find it,” he said; “I must 
have left it in my room. I have so much 
to do,” he added, testily, “ that sometimes 
I lose my head. I must find it, however. 
Excuse me, I will be back directly.” 

His sudden departure from the room had 
been the inspiration of the moment, for, 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


17S 


divining a rendezvous, he thought he 
could find out what he wanted to know 
on the other side of the door. He there- 
fore put his ear and then his eye to the 
key-hole, and heard and saw all he desired. 

This moment of liberty which the adroit 
President offered seemed to Norbert a 
celestial boon. IVhen Diane entered the 
room he was painfully struck by the al- 
teration in . her face. JEle took her hand, 
which she did not withdraw, and looked 
into her very eyes. 

‘‘ Tell me,” he said in a low, tender 
voice, ‘‘ what is wrong with you?” 

A sigh from Diane, and then a tear 
trembled on her lashes and rolled down 
her cheeks. 

This tear was the culmination of the 
youth’s despair. 

“ In Heaven’s name,” he cried, “ what 
is your grief? Diane, I implore you to 
tell me I Am I not your truest and most 
devoted friend? ” 

At first she resisted, hut finally she 
avowed that the evening before, her father 
had spoken to her of a young man who 
had asked her hand — a young man with 
every advantage of birth, character and 
fortune. 

Norbert listened, shaken from head to 
foot with a cold passion of jealousy. 

“ And you did not refuse? ” he said. 

“How could I?” she asked. “What 
could a poor young girl do against her 
family, when she had only two alterna- 
tives offered — either a marriage she 
loathed, or a convent.” 

With his ear close to the door, Dauman 
shook with laughter. 

“Not bad!” he muttered — “not bad 
for a little convent-bred girl. She has a 
clear head and a clever tongue ; and under 
my tuition she would go any length. If 
this simpleton does not declare himself 
now, what will be her next move, I 
wonder?” 

“And you could hesitate?” resumed 
Norbert, reproachfully. “ In the convent 
. there would always be a chance of escape, 
while in marriage ” 

Diane, more lovely than ever, wrung her 
hands piteously. 

“ What reasons,” she asked, “ could she 
give her father for her refusal? Did not 
every one know that she had no dowry ; 
that she was sacrificed to her brother; 
immolated to the stupid prejudices of this 
haughty nobility? Who but this man 
would ever ask her hand?” 

“Do you forget me?” cried Norbert. 
“ You do not love me, then ” 

“Alas! my friend, you are not free 
either.” 

“I am then, only a weak child, it 
seems?” he asked, with tightly com- 
pressed lips. 

“ Your father is all-powerful,” she re- 
plied, resignedly. “His will is indexible, 
and you are in his power.” 


“What do I care for my father?” he 
exclaimed. “ Am I not a Champdoce as 
well as he? Woe be to him, whether it be 
my father or not, who comes between me 
and the woman I adore. For I adore you, 
Diane, and no human being shall take you 
from me.” 

He snatched the girl to his breast and 
pressed a burning kiss on her brow. 
Dauman, at the key-hole, held his breath 
for a moment. 

“ This sight,” he continued, “ is worth 
to me at least Mty thousand francs.” 

Panting like a bird in the hands of an 
eager child, Diane repulsed Norbert, and 
escaped from his arms. She adored him 
at that moment, and feeling every pulse in 
her frame vibrate at his touch, she was 
afraid — afraid of him, afraid of herself. 

“ Do you refuse me, then? ” he asked in 
a calmer tone. “ Do you repulse me when 
I implore you to be my wife — to be the 
Duchess de Champdoce? ” 

Mademoiselle de Laurebourg answered 
with one look, which said as clearly aa 
ever eyes spoke before : 

“ Yes — yes! ” 

“Then,” continued Norbert, “why 
frighten ourselves with these vain chime- 
ras? Do you doubt my love? It may be 
that my father will oppose these plans 
which assure the happiness of my life. 
Before long I will escape from his despot- 
ism. It is only a few months, you know, 
before I am of age.” 

“ Alas ! my friend,” she answered, “ you 
rook yourself with vain delusions. You 
must be twenty-five before you can escape 
from parental power, and can give the 
protection of your name to the woman 
you love.” 

This was precisely the disclosure for 
which the President had been waiting. 

“Bravo!” he murmured: “ Bravo t 
young lady. This is why she came. 
There is some pleasure in giving her a les- 
son, for she does not forget a word.” 

“You are mistaken,” Norbert said, 
slowly. 

“ Unfortunately, I tell you the precise 
truth, my friend. It is the law which 
clearly defines the age which I state — 
twenty-five. You will enjoy Paris, Nor- 
bert, from twenty-one to 'twenty-five. 
Will you even remember that a sad-hearted 
girl ” 

“ Why do you talk to me of law? I 
shall have plenty of money when I am 
twenty-one ; and do you think I shall sub- 
mit to my father's coercion? Not so. I 
will tear his consent from him ! ” 

The President was carefully removing 
the lint from the knees of his pantaloons. 

“ I shall open the door hastily,” he 
thought, “ and hear a word or two which 
will avoid many lengthy explanations.” 

He was in no way disconcerted by the 
effect he produced. In the easiest possi- 
ble tone, he said : 


174 


THE SLAVE 8 OF PABI8. 


“ I could not find the letter ; but I as- 
sure you that the widow’s aflair shall be 
speedily and satisfactorily arranged.” 

Norbert and Diane exchanged a look, 
which testified to the chagrin they felt on 
fin din g themselves at the discretion of this 
man. 

This evident fear seemed to mortify 
Dauman most cruelly. 

‘‘ You have a right,” he said, crossly, “ ta 
say to me : ‘ Take care of your own 
affairs.’ But the truth is, that injustice 
revolts me to such a degree that I invaria- 
bly side with the weakest. Then while I am 
busy thinking about that, in I come and 
hear you talking about your troubles, and 
I say to myself, ‘ President, here are two 
young people made for each other ’ ” 

“Sir I” interrupted Diane, haughtily, 
“ you forget yourself.” 

“I beg your pardon,” he stammered; 
“ I am only a poor peasant; I speak out 
too plainly. I meant no harm, and I 
trust you will forgive me.” 

Dauman looked at Diane, and as she 
made no objection, he resumed : “ Well, 
then, I said to myself, here are two young 
people who love each other, and have a 
right to love each other, and yet they are 
kept apart by unreasonable, hard-hearted 
parents. Young and ignorant, and know- 
ing nothing of the law, they would infalli- 
bly get into trouble without help. Now 
suppose I should work with and for them, 
for I know the law thoroughly — I know 
its weak points and its strong ones ” 

He talked on for fully ten minutes, and 
affected not to see that they were whisper- 
ing to each other a little apart. 

“Why not trust him?” said Norbert; 
“ he has had experience.” 

“He will betray us; he is capable of 
anything for money.” 

“ So much the better for us, then. He 
will hold his tongue when promised a mag- 
nificent reward.” 

“ Do as you think best, my friend.” 

Thus encouraged, Norbert tm*ned to 
Dauman. 

“1 have confidence in you,” he said, 
“ and so has this young lady. You know 
the present situation. What is your ad- 
vice?” 

“ Learn to wait,” answered the Presi- 
dent. “ The least step taken before your 
majority is fatal; but the day after you 
are twenty-one I promise to show you 
more ways than one to bring the Due 
down on his marrow-bones. 

He could not be induced to speak more 
plainly, but he was so plausible and cheer- 
ful, that when Diane left the office it was 
witfi renewed hope. 

This was almost their last interview that 
year. The weather went on from bad to 
worse, so that it was impossible for them 
to meet out of doors, and the fear of being 
watched prevented them from availing 
themselves of Dauman’s hospitality. Each 


day, however, the Widow Rouleau’s 
daughter carried a letter to Laurebourg 
and brought back a reply to Charapdoce. 

The cold weather had scattered the in- 
habitants of the various chateaux. 

Only the Marquis de Laurebourg, who 
was a great sportsman, lingered behind ; 
but he, too, when a heavy snow storm 
came, determined to take refuge in a fine 
house he owned in Poitiers. 

Norbert and Diane had foreseen this 
step, and acted accordingly. 

Two or three times each week Norbert 
threw himself on his horse and rode to 
town, there changed his dress, and hurried 
to a certain garden wall, where he walked 
up and down before a small door. 

At a certain hour, previously agreed 
upon, this door would softly open, Nor- 
bert would slip in, and there he would 
find Diane lovelier than ever. 

This great passion, which was now his 
whole life — the certainty of being loved 
— had dissipated much of his timidity. 

He had found Montlouis, and often 
played a game of dominoes with him at 
the Cafe Castile. Montlouis was in Poi- 
tiers only temporarily, for he was to go 
in the spring to join the young Count de 
Mussidan, whose secretary he was to be- 
come. 

This impending departure was not to 
the taste of the young man, as he was 
desperately in love with a young girl in 
the vicinity. 

Confidence for confidence; and more 
than once Montlouis went with Norbert to ^ 
the door that opened into the garden of 
the Marquis de Laurebourg. 

April had come again. The chateaux 
were filling up, and at last came the bliss- 
ful day when the Marquis de Laurebourg 
returned to his chateau. 

The lovers had now only a few months 
to wait ; and, to preach patience unto each 
other, they, the week of Diane’s return, 
spent an afternoon in the woods. It was 
from this rendezvous that Norbert, light- 
hearted and happy, entered his father’s 
presence. 

“Marquis, said the Due, looking up 
and speaking without any introduction of 
the subject. “ I have found a wife for 
you, whom you will marry in two months.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A thunder clap would have terrified 
Norbert less than these words. 

The Due did not see, or did not choose 
to see his son’s agitation, and it was in the 
most indifferent tone that he added : 

“ There is no need, I imagine, my son, 
to tell you the name of the young lady. 
It is, of course. Mademoiselle dePuyman- 
dour. She cannot fail to please you ; she 
is very pretty, tall, dark, and well-made. 
Her teeth, eyes, and hair are admirable. 
Do you not think so?” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


175 


Yes,” stammered Norbert. “I think 
— in fact I did not notice her.” 

Pshaw ! ” muttered the old nobleman, 
“ I thought you were learning to use your 
«yes. Never mind, you will have ample 
time to see after you are married.” 

‘‘And, Marquis, you must turn over a 
new leaf in regard to your dress. To- 
morrow you will go v/ith me to Poitiers 
and give your orders to a tailor, who will 
see that you are dressed as befits your 
rank. You don’t wish, I suppose, to 
frighten your lady love by your appear- 
ance?” 

But ” 

“Wait a moment, if you please. I shall 
set aside some of the rooms in the chateau, 
and you will pass your honeymoon here 
— you will take care that it does not spin 
itself out too long — and, after a while, 
we can introduce this young woman into 
all our ways.” 

“ But, sir,” said Norbert, hastily, “ sup- 
pose I do not fancy this young lady ? ” 

“Well?” 

“ Suppose I should entreat of you to 
spare me from a marriage which would 
make me miserable? ” 

Monsieur de Champdoce shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“ That is very childish,” he said. “This 
alliance is in every way suitable, and I 
wish it ” 

“But, sir ” again began Norbert. 

“Do you hesitate?” asked his father, 
angrily. 

“ No ; I do not hesitate,” he said, boldly. 

“ Very well, then. Let a mere nobody 
consult the dictates of his heart, if he sees 
fit, when he marries, but with a man of 
position it is very different, and should be 
looked upon as a matter of business. I 
have managed matters well. Let me 
tell you the conditions ; two-thirds of his 
fortune; and his fortune is estimated at 
five millions. Think of that ! And this is 
all the more reason,” he cried, “ for pinch- 
ing and economizing. Think of the resto- 
ration of our house ; of the princely for- 
tune of our descendants, and realize the 
beauty of self-abnegation.” 

He walked up and down the room, 
speaking incoherently, and at last stopped 
before his son. 

“You understand,” he said. “ To-mor- 
row you will go to Poitiers, and on Sunday 
we dine at the Puymandours.” 

Norbert hardly knew what to say or do 
in this extremity. 

“ Father,” he began once more, “ I do 
not care to go to Poitiers to-morrow.” 

“ What is that you say? What on earth 
do you mean? ” 

“ I mean that I shall never love Made- 
moiselle de Puymandour, and that she 
will never be my wife.” 

The Due had never foreseen this emer- 
gency, and his mind refused to accept 
such monstrous iniquity. 


“ You are mad I ” he finally said, “and 
you do not know what you say or what 
you want ! ” 

“ I know very well.” 

“ Reflect, my son.” 

“ I have reflected.” 

Monsieur de Champdoce was evidently 
having a desperate struggle to keep calm. 

“ And you think,” he said, “ that I shall 
be satisfied with an answer like this?” 
and the Due smiled disdainfully. 

“ I hope you will yield to my prayers.” 

“Do you, indeed? You think that I, 
the head of this family, who have con- 
ceived a magnificent plan for the elevation 
of this family, will be turned from my 
plan by the mere caprice of a boy like 
yourself! Surely, you should know me 
better by this time ! ” 

“No, father,” he said, “it is not the 
mere caprice of a boy that dictates this 
refusal and my request for my liberty. 
Have I not always be^ n a good son ? Have 
I ever contested your will? You have 
said : ‘ Go there,’ and I have gone — 
‘Come here,’ and I have obeyed. 1 am 
the son of the wealthiest man in the prov- 
ince, and I have lived like the son of your 
poorest farm-hand. Have I complained 
or murmured? Bid me do whatever you 
choose.” 

“ I bid you marry Mademoiselle de Puy- 
mandour ! ” 

“ Oh ! all but that. I do not love her, I 
cannot love her. Do you wish me to be 
utterly miserable for the rest of my life? 
Do not exact this of me I ” 

“ I have spoken, and you will obey.” 

“ No,” Norbert said, quietly, “ I will 
not obey I ” 

The Due turned a deep purple, and then 
every drop of blood seemed to leave his 
face, which became absolutely livid. 

“ Good God ! ” he cried in a voice that 
once would have shriveled Norbert to 
powder. “ How dare you to brave me in 
this way ? Whence comes your courage ? ’* 

“ From the consciousness that I am in 
the right.” 

“ How long is it since it was right for 
children to disobey the commands of their 
parents? ” 

“Ever since their fathers ventured to 
utter unjust commands.” 

This was more than the Due de Champ- 
doce could well endure. 

He rushed towards his son with his cane 
raised, and with a frightful oath. 

Suddenly he stopped, threw his stick 
across the room, and said, in a hoarse 
voice : 

“ No ! I will not strike a Champdoce! ” 

No one will ever know that it was not 
Norbert’s fearless attitude that restrained 
the passionate fury of his father. 

This youth, formerly so timid, had not 
moved — not an eyelash quivered as he 
stood with folded arms and head thrown 
back. 


176 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


‘‘This is what I will not bear,” ex- 
claimed his father. And seizing his son 
by the collar, he dragged, or carried him, 
rather, to one of the rooms on the second 
floor, and thrust him within the door as if 
he had been an inert mass. 

“You will have twenty-four hours to 
decide whether you will accept the wife I 
have selected for you.” 

“ My decision is made,” answered Xor- 
bert, calmly. 

The door was of solid oak an inch thick 
— a hatchet would have been needed to do 
anything there. As to the lock, it was as 
enormous in strength as in size. 

Only the window remained; and this 
was forty feet from the ground. But Nor- 
bert said to himself, that, of course, some 
one would come to make up his bed for 
the night, and then he would have two 
sheets at his disposal. These he could 
knot together, and thus obtain the means 
of descent. 

If he took his departure before dawn, 
he, of course, could not see Diane ; but he 
could send her a warning through Dau- 
man. 

This plan decided upon, he threw him- 
self into one of the arm-chairs in the 
room with a lighter heart than he had 
known for months, for between his father 
and himself the ice was now broken, and 
this seemed to him a great step gained, and 
that which remained for him to do was in- 
finitely less, iu his opinion, than that which 
he had already achieved. 

“ My father,” he said, to himself, must 
be nearly wild with rage ! ” And he was 
quite right iu this surmise. When he took 
his seat at the table, where all the farm 
hands ate with him, there was not one per- 
son who was bi'ave enough to utter a syl- 
lable. 

Every one knew that between the father 
and son a trouble and altercation had 
taken place, and the attention and curios- 
ity of all were on the qui vive. 

When the meal was over, the Due called 
an old confidential servant, who had been 
in his employment for thirty years. 

“ Jean,” he said, “ your young master is 
shut up in the yellow room on the second 
floor. There is the key ; take him some- 
thing to eat.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Wait a moment. You will pass the 
night in his room. Whether he sleeps or 
not you will watch him just the same. It 
may be that he thinks of running away. If 
it be necessary to employ force, employ 
it; that is all. If you are not strong 
enough, just call tome; I shall hear and 
come to your assistance.” 

This unexpected precaution destroyed 
all Norbert's hopes. He tried to induce 
his Jailer to let him out for a couple of 
hours, swearing that he would return be- 
fore the expiration of that time. His 
prayers were as vain, however, as the 


threats to which he next resorted. Had 
he looked from the window, •iiowever, he 
would have seen his father pacing up and 
down the court-yard, absorbed in the 
dreary thought that perhaps after all these 
long years he was doomed to disappoint- 
ment. 

“ There is a woman concerned in it,” he 
murmured. “ Only a woman could in so 
short a time change a young man's char- 
acter from white to black. Besides,” 
thought this wise man of the world and 
stuiient of human nature, “he would 
never have declined this proposition with 
such obstinac}^ if he had not been in love 
with some one else ! ” 

But who could this woman be? What 
steps could he take to discover her? 

To ask Norbert himself would be foolish 
and at the same time the Duo was very 
unwilling to institute any formal inquiry. 
He passed the greater part of the night in 
this painfur indecision, when ail at once 
he had an inspiration which he regarded 
as direct from Heaven. 

I have Bruno ! ” he cried. Through 
this dog of my son's I ' can learn all his 
habits, and discover to what houses he 
goes and even ascertain the very woman 
under whose influence he acts ! ” 

Somewhat comforted by this faint hope 
he was more like himself when he ap- 
peared in the morning. At twelve he took 
his seat at the table as usual^ and ordered 
the prisoner’s dinner to be carried up, 
with no relaxation of watchfulness. 

At last the moment arrived which he 
deemed favorable. He whistled to Bruno 
who almost never followed him, but in 
iSTorbert's absence he 3delded to entreaties 
and condescended to accompany the Due 
as far as the end of the avenue. 

Here there were three roads diverging, 
but Bruno did not hesitate, he turned to 
the left, with the air of a dog who knows 
perfectly well wiiere he is going. This 
continued for more than half "an hour, and 
then Bruno came out on the path at the 
precise spot where Yorbert had nearly 
killed Diane de Laurebourg. 

Here he ran round in a circle, and find- 
ing nothing quietly lay down. His intel- 
ligent eyes seemed to say : Let us wait ! ” 

“ Evidently," thought the Due, “ this is 
the spot where the lovers have been in the 
habit of meeting.” 

The path was unfrequented, and the 
grove, standing on an elevation, com- 
manded such a view that a surprise was 
almost impossible. 

This reflection induced Monsieur de 
Champdoce to retreat into the shadow, 
where he seated himself on a mossy stone 
at the foot of an oak. 

He was so pleased at his penetration 
that he Was almost in good humor. On 
reflection the danger seemed to him far 
less than he had feared. To whom could 
Norbert have lost his heart? \Vhat am- 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS, 


177 


bitious little country girl was it, who, 
thinking that the youth was simple enough 
to be duped, had made up her mind to 
marry him? 

The Due was thus cogitating when he 
heard the dog bark ioyousl5’’. 

Here she comes ! ” he said, as he rose. 

At the same moment Diane appeared. ' 

When she saw Monsieur de Champ doce 
she uttered a little shriek of terror. 

She hesitated — should she turn and 
run? Alas! she had not the strength. 

She tottered, and extending her arm, 
grasped a slender birch for su{)port. 

The old nobleman was quite as much 
dismayed as she. He had expected a 
country ghl and he saw the daughter of 
the Marquis de Laurebourg ! 

But his anger quite equaled his surprise. 
If he had nothing to fear from the peas- 
ant, he had everything to fear from this 
young lady. 

And here again there was no recourse 
to her family, for who could be certain 
that Mademoiselle Diane’s parents were 
not acting with her. 

"‘Ah! ha!” began the Due, ‘‘you do 
not look overpleased to see me, my child ! ” 

“ Sir ! ” 

“I understand. When one comes to 
meet the son and finds the father, the 
change is not altogether satisfactory. But 
you must not blame IsTorbert, for, poor 
boy, I assure you that it is not his fault ! ” 

Mademoiselle de Laurebourg was no or- 
dinary girl. Startled at first, she had by 
this time regained her self-possession. 

Some women would have taken refuge 
in a denial. This idea never occurred to 
her. A disavowal of her position would 
have been, in her eyes, an act of absolute 
baseness. 

•‘You are right, sir,” she said: “it was 
to meet your son, the Marquis, that I 
came. You will, therefore, excuse me if I 
retire,” 

She made a sweeping courtesy with 
charming grace, and was about to pass on, 
but the Due laid his hand on her arm. 

“ My child, allow me to say a few 
words to you ; ” and he tried to speak in 
a kind, falherly tone. “ Do you know why 
Norbert is not here? ” 

“ I presume he has some excellent rea- 
son.” 

“ My son is a prisoner in his roonl, and 
guarded by my servants, who are ordered 
to restrain him by force if he makes any 
attempt to escape.” 

“Indeed! Poor fellow! How I pity 
him!” 

The Due was amazed at this effrontery, 
as he called it in his heart. 

“ I will tell you,” he said, with consid- 
erable anger in his voice, “ why I treat 
my only son and the heir of my name and 
fortune, in this way.” 

His eyes flashed fire, but Diane an- 
swered carelessly : 


“ Go on, sir, I beg.” 

“Well then, as you wish to know, I beg 
leave to inform you that I ’ve found a wife 
for I^orbert. She is about your own age, 
beautiful, clever, witty, and rich.” 

•‘ And of high birth, of course? ” 

This sarcasm stung the old nobleman. 

“ Fifteen hundred thousand fi*ancs as a 
dowry,” he replied, sternly, is worth 
more than a silver tower on an azure 
field.” 

These were the Laurebom-g arms, and 
the Due paused. Gathering himself to- 
gether again he continued: “And beside 
this fortune, she has additional expecta- 
tions; and this heiress my son is mad 
enough to refuse. To this, of course, I 
cannot submit.” 

“ And you are quite right, sir, I am 
sure; particularly if you think this mar- 
riage would ensure your son's happiness.” 

‘•flis happiness ! What does that mat- 
ter if the supremacy of our house is 
ensured by it. I have determined that 
IS'orbert shall marry this woman — and 
marry her he shall. I have sworn it, and 
I swear it again ! And I told him so.” 

Diane suffered intolerable agony, but 
her pride sustained her; and, moreover 
feeling sure of Yorbert she ventured to ask : 

“ And what did he say to that?” 

“ Norbert,” he said, angrily, “ will re- 
turn to his duty as soon as it pleases me 
to remove him' from the pernicious influ- 
ence to which he has been subjected.” 

“• Ah, indeed ! ” 

“He will obey me when I show him 
that while he may be in ignorance of the 
prestige of his fortune and his name, there 
are others who understand it fully. To 
be Duchess de Champdoce! — any woman 
might be willing to fight for that title. 
My son, young lady, is a mere child; but 
I have had some small experience of the 
world, and when I show him the ambition 
which he, poor fool, took for love and un- 
selfish devotion, he will resume his allegi- 
ance to me. I will tell him what he 
ought to think of those haughty, well- 
born damsels, who, both penniless and 
proud, have only their swords — that is to 
say, their youth and their beauty — with 
which to win their husbands; and that to 
do this, they are willing to run risks and 
perils which eventually leave them with 
tarnished reputations.” 

“Go on, sir!” she cried, in a tone of 
dignified anger, “ go on; insult a defens •- 
less girl — laugh at her poverty — it is a 
generous and noble thing to do, and 
worthy of a gentleman ! ” 

“I thought,” he said, “that I was ad- 
dressing her whose counsels had induced 
my son to rebel against my authority. 
Am I mistaken? You can prove me to be 
in the wrong by inducing Norbert to 
submit.” 

She did not speak — ^but her head drooped 
slowly. 


178 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


“ You see,” said the Due, more angrily 
than before, “ that I am right. Keflect 
well on what I say, and remember that 
such a course on your part will justify any 
reprisals on mine. You are warned — 
continue your intrigue, if you dare ! ” 

This word ‘intrigue,” muttered with 
the most insulting intonation, drove Diane 
to frenzy. At this moment she would 
have sacrificed for revenge, her honor, her 
ambition, her very life. 

Forgetting all prudence, she threw away 
her mask, and throwing back her head 
haughtily, with her eyes hashing fire, and 
her cheeks blazing : 

Listen to me!” she cried. ‘‘I, too, 
have sworn — and I have sworn that ^^or- 
bert shall be my husband!” She ex- 
tended her arms with a grand gesture. 

And he will be my husband. Imprison 
him, subject him to the indignities of your 
servants if you will, you will never extort 
from him a shadow of assent. He will 
resist because I bid him resist — even unto 
death, if need must be. His energy, 
doubled by mine, will never abate. Be- 
lieve me, sir, when I tell you, that before 
you attack the honor of a young girl, it 
will be as well to recall the fact that she 
will one day become a member of your 
own family. Farewell.” 

Mademoiselle Diane was far down the 
path before the Due recovered his senses, 
and then he burst into a torrent of fright- 
ful imprecations, threats and insults. 

He believed himself alone, but never 
was he more mistaken. The whole of this 
strange scene had one witness, who kept 
liimself invisible, and the witness was 
Dauman. 

Warned by one of the servants at the 
chateau of the imprisonment of the young 
Marquis, the President had but one 
thought, and that was to warn the young 
lady. Unfortunately, he saw no way for 
him to do this. He could not go to Laure- 
bourg, and no power on earth would have 
induced him to write a line. 

His embarrassment was great, when 
suddenly it occurred to him that he might 
go to the rendezvous of the lovers. 

Diane had uttered her little shriek on 
perceiving the Due. 

This shriek had put Dauman on his 
guard. Bruno scented him; but he was 
known by the dog, who accepted his 
caresses. 

If he delighted in the rage of the Due 
— that enemy whom he hated with a mor- 
tal hatred — he admired the courage of 
Mademoiselle de Laurebourg. Her au- 
dacity struck him as absolutely sublime, 
and he longed to be able to make use of 
her to carry out his designs of vengeance. 

He understood that Mademoiselle would 
find herself in a state of great perplexity, 
and that she would not fail, before return- 
ing to Laurebourg, to call on him for a 
consultation. 


“ How,” he said to himself, “ if I expect 
to make anything out of her present state 
of mind, I ought to strike while the iron 
is hot, and how can I do that, if I am not 
at home to receive her? ” 

And without any especial caution he 
started forth through the woods, trying to 
find some way that would take him home 
unseen by Diane. 

This movement among the underbrush 
attracted the attention of the Due. 

“ Who is there?” he cried, going toward 
the place where he heard the noise. 

Ho reply. 

He could not be mistaken. He called 
Bruno, and tried to put him on the scent, 
but Bruno was not much excited; he 
sniffed about a little, however, and finally 
seemed to linger at one especial spot. 

Monsieur Champdoce went toward it, 
and distinctly beheld on the velvety moss 
the imprint of two knees. 

‘‘ Some one has been listening,” he said 
to himself, disagreeably impressed by this 
circumstance. ""But who can it be? Is 
it Herbert, who has escaped from his 
room?” 

As he entered the’ court-yard, he called 
to one of the stable boys : 

Where is my son? ” he asked. 

‘‘Up-stairs, sir,”was the reply. 

Monsieur de Champdoce breathed again. 
Herbert had not escaped, and therefore it 
was not he who had been listening. 

“ But, sir,” added the boy, to whom the 
Due had called, “ our young master is in 
a terrible state.” 

What do you mean? ” 

“ Well, sir, he declared he would not 
stay in that room a minute longer, and so 
Jean called for assistance. He is fright- 
fully strong, sir, for it took six of us to 
hold him. He swore that if we would let 
him go he would be back in two hours, 
and said it was a matter in which his honor 
and his life were involved.” 

The old nobleman heard this account 
with a sarcastic smile ; what did he care 
for the struggles of this poor boy. The 
Due’s heart had grown hard under the 
pressure of the fixed ideas of so many 
years. 

It was with the solemn air of a man who 
believes himself to be fulfilling a sacred 
duty, that he ascended the stairs, and 
knocked on the door of the room where 
his son was confined. 

Jean, the confidential servant, opened it 
instantly, and for a minute the Due stood 
on the threshold. All the furniture had 
been overturned, and much of it had been 
broken, and the fragments strewed the 
floor. 

A stout farm-hand was seated by the 
window. Horbert lay on the bed with his 
face turned to the wall. 

“ Leave us,” said the Due at last to the 
servants, who withdrew instantly. 

“ Get up, Horbert; I want you.” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


179 


The youth obeyed. 

Any one but Monsieur de Champdoce 
would have been startled by the expres- 
sion of the young man’s face. 

“What does this mean?” asked the 
Due, in his most arbitrary voice. “Are 
not my orders sufficient to insure obedi- 
ence? It seems that it was necessary to 
employ brute force during my absence. 
Tell me, my son, what you have 
gained from these hours of solitude. 
What plans have you formed, and what 
hopes? ” 

“ I wish, and I intend to be free.” 

This clear, decisive answer Monsieur de 
Champdoce preferred not to hear. 

“It was easy for me to discover,” con- 
tinued his father, “from your obstinate 
resistance, that some woman was deter- 
mined to take advantage of your inexpe- 
rience, and was by her pernicious influence 
inducing you to disobey your best friend.” 

He hesitated. No answer came. 

“ This woman who was flattering your 
pride and ministering to your worst pas- 
sions I went in search of, and, as you may 
well imagine, I found her. I went to the 
Bois de Bevron, and there, I need not tell 
you, I met Mademoiselle de Laurebourg.” 

“ And — did you speak to her?” 

“Did I speak to her? lam inclined to 
the belief that I did. I told her what I 
thought of those adventuresses who fasci- 
nate the dupes whom they propose to take 
advantage of.” 

“ Father ! ” 

“ Can it be possible, you poor, simple 
boy, that you have been taken in by the 
pretense of love made by that young lady? 
It is not you. Marquis, whom she wants, 
it is our fortune and our name. But I 
know, if she does not, that there are places 
where women who lead young men astray 
can be shut up, and I told her this.” 

Norbert turned perfectly white. 

“ And you said that to her? ” he said, in 
a low, hoarse tone. “ You dared to insult 
the woman I love, while you knew that I 
could not be at her side to protect her? 
Take care — I shall forget that you • are 
my father.” 

“He threatens me!” roared the Due. 
“ My son threatens me ! ” 

And he lifted his heavy stick and struck 
Norbert a frightful blow. 

The poor boy, fortunately, instinctively 
recoiled, so that only the extreme end of 
the stick struck him, just above the tem- 
ple, and slipped, making a long scratch 
upon his cheek. 

Norbert, in his turn mad with rage, was 
about to rush on his father, when he sud- 
denly saw that the door was open. This 
was liberty and salvation. 

With one bound he was on the stairs, 
and before the Due could throw up the 
window and call for help, the young man 
was running like a madman across the 
meadow. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

The road taken by Dauman to regain 
his house was much longer than the one 
followed by Mademoiselle de Laurebourg. 
But he had no choice as he did not wish 
to be seen by the young girl. 

Once at home he rushed up stairs, and 
from a small hole in the wainscoting, 
which was hidden with marvelous skill, 
he took out a bottle of dark green glass, 
which he slipped into his pocket. When 
he was in his office again he examined 
this bottle with a sinister smile, and after 
ascertaining that there had been no tam- 
pering with its contents, he laid it on his 
bureau behind the ledgers. 

Then with the air of a man whose labors 
are drawing to a close he wiped his brow , 
donned his artistic skull-cap of velvet, and 
a shabby dressing-gown. 

Mademoiselle Diane might come now as 
soon as she pleased, he was ready for her. 

Why on earth did she not come? 

Dauman began to be anxious. He 
went to the window, and looked down the 
road; he examined, his watch and swore, 
when, all at once, he heard a light tap on 
the door of his office. 

“ Come in,” he cried. 

She advanced slowly, and made no reply 
to the obsequious civility of the President 
— she hardly seemed to perceive his pres- 
ence, as she seated herself, or rather sank 
into a chair. 

At heart Dauman was in ecstacies. He 
imderstood now why mademoiselle was so 
long in coming ; she could not come fast, 
her strength was gone. 

But this prostration did not last long. 
She shook off the torpor, and said, in a 
low, abrupt tone : 

“President, I need advice. Listen to 
me. About an hour ago ” 

With a gesture Dauman interrupted the 
young lady. 

“Alas ! he sighed, “ I know all ! ” 

“ You know ” 

“That Monsieur Norbert is a prisoner? 
Yes, mademoiselle I know this. And 1 
know too, that you have just met Monsieur 
de Champdoce in the Bois de Bevron. I 
know, moreover, all you said to the Due. 
I have heard every word from a person 
who has just left me.” 

Diane was unable to repress a start of 
terror and dismay. 

“ Who told you this? ” she gasped. 

“A wood-cutter. Ah! mademoiselle, 
the woods are not safe places in which to 
tell secrets. Behind every trunk is a pair 
of ears. Four of these men heard every 
syllable you both said. As soon as you 
left the Due, they started off eager to tell 
their tale. I did my best to make the one 
I saw promise not to repeat it. He prom- 
ised, of course, but Heaven bless the mark ! 
he is married, and will tell it all to his 
wife. Then there are the three others.” 


180 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


‘‘Then I am lost!”, she murmured, 
“lost!” 

But Diane de Laurebourg was not the 
person to lay down her arms and call her-' 
self conquered. She seized the President's 
arm. 

“ All is not over yet,” she cried. “What 
are we to do? You must know some- 
thing, Speak ! I am ready for anything, 
now that I have nothing to lose. No, it 
shall never be said that the I^uc de Champ- 
doce insulted me — the coward ! — and 
that 1 am not revenged! VYill you help 
me?” 

“ For Heaven’s sake! ” he said, “ speak 
lower! Be calm, 1 implore you. You do 
not know this man, I assure you.” ^ 

“ You are afraid of him then, are you? ” 

“Yes, mademoiselle. I am afraid, and 
very much afraid. What a man he is! 
When he wants anything he has it at any 
cost. Do you know that he tried to injure 
me— to punish me — for having summoned 
him before a magistrate in the name of 
one of my clients? Consequent!}’^, when 
any one comes to me with anything 
against the Due, I am apt to keep out of 
the business 

“ So, then,” she said, in a tone of the 
most profound contempt, ‘"you, after in- 
ducing us to compromise ourselves, now 
abandon us in our last extremity.” 

“ Oh, Mademoiselle, can you believe 

5? ' 

“ Do as you please. President. Norbert 
is still left to me.” 

Dauman shook his head sadly. 

How can we be sure that at this very 
moment the Marquis has not said Amen ! 
to all his father’s propositions?” 

“No!” cried Mademoiselle Diane, “to 
suppose that would be to insult Norbert. 
He would kill himself first ! He is timid, 
I know, but not cowardly. When he 
thinks of me he will have strength to re- 
sist.” 

Dauman sank into the leather-cushioned 
chair, as if utterly broken down by the 
excitement of this painful interview. 

“We reason coldly,” he said, “ because 
we stand here free and in safety. Mon- 
sieur Norbert, on the contrary, is exposed 
to all sorts of menaced dangers — to moral 
and physical tortures — and is subjected, 
without the smallest defense, to the 
caprices of the most wicked and most 
obstinate of men.’ There are hours in 
men’s lives when the . firmest natures 
waver.” 

“I admit it. I admit that Norbert may 
have abandoned me — that he will marry 
another woman — and that I am lost and 
dishonored, and the talk of the whole 
j)rovince ” 

“ But, Mademoiselle, you have ” 

“ I have still life. President — and that 
life I would gladly give in exchange for re- 
vengo.” 

The girl’s tone was so terrible in its 


thrilling vehemence, that the man who 
heard it started ; and this time the start 
was real, not affected. 

“I agree with you; and many beside 
ourselves have sworn vengeance. They 
have threatened, with oaths that might 
bring down the vane on the church-steeple, 
that they will have revenge yet. A good 
shot in the twilight from behind a hedge 
would soon finish him. They have tried 
it, too ; but the Due has a charmed life, 
and the guns missed fire or the bullets 
went wide of the mark.” 

‘‘And yet, if the judges could only see 
deeper into things — what looks to them 
like a crime is often a deliverance — and 
if people only knew. Who can tell how 
many other crimes the death of the Due 
de Champdoce would avert — or how many 
people it would render happy. 

Diane de Laurebourg turned pale as she 
listened to these frightful words. 

“ Meanwhile,” continued Dauman, “ the 
Due will live a hundred years. He is 
rich and powerful, and to a certain degree 
respected. He will die in his bed, there 
will be a great crowd at his funeral, and 
the cur6 will pray for him.” 

The President had taken from behind 
his ledgers his bottle of black glass, and 
was turning it round mechanically, as it 
were. 

“ Yes,” he repeated, “ Monsieur de 
Champdoce will bury us all, unless ” 

He uncorked the bottle and cautiously 
dropped into the palm of his hand a small 
portion of its contents. It was several 
grains of fine dust, white and sparkling 
like microscopic crystals. 

■ ‘‘ And yet,” he said, in a low, stern 
voice, “ a little of this powder and no one 
need ever fear again this terrible Due. A 
man who lies six feet under ground, with 
a heavy stone and a fine epitaph over him, 
does not inspire much dread in anybody.” 

He ceased speaking, and watched the 
girl before him. 

The two stood face to face, immovable 
and breathless, for two good minutes. The 
silence was so profound that the very beat- 
ing of their two hearts was heard. 

Each wished to ascertain, before break- 
ing this intense silence, that the criminal 
thought in the mind of the other equaled 
his own. 

It was, in fact, a bargain ratified by their 
eyes rather than by their lips. They un- 
derstood this perfectly, for Dauman at 
last spoke, in a hoarse whisper, as if he 
feared the very sound of his own voice. 

“ There is no pain in this ” 

‘^ Ah! ” 

“It is like a man struck by a heavy 
blow on the temple. Ten seconds, and all 
is over., Not a cry, nor a gasp, nor a 
struggle — nothing — ” 

“Nothing?” 

“ And no traces left, moreover. ^ One 
pinch would sufiice, dropped in wine or 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


181 


coffee. Nothing either betrays its presence 
— no change of color in the liquid pre- 
ferred — no odor, no taste.” 

‘‘ But on e:^amination it would be 
found.” 

In Paris, or in other large towns, pos- 
sibly ; but in the provinces never. Never, 
in fact, anywhere, unless suspicion has 
been previously aroused. If an examina- 
tion were made, why ” 

‘‘ Well, go on.” 

Only the symptoms of apoplexy would 
be found — that is all. Besides, it is not 
enough to say it is there, it must be found. 
Then comes the question later still of how 
it got there.” 

Yes, perhaps ” 

‘‘There is no perhaps. Investigations 
once begun would be carried to the end ; 
but they would not find this ” 

He stopped short — a word hovered on 
his lips that he dared not utter. He 
coughed to conceal this hesitation, and 
then went on : 

‘•This substance is not sold at the 
apothecary’s. It is rare, and very difficult 
to prepare and obtain, besides being very 
costly. If in .five or six laboratories as 
many centigrammes could be found, it is 
only in the pursuit of science. It is im- 
possible to imagine that any man in this 
part of the world possesses an atom of it, 
or even knows of its existence. For 
where and how could he procure it? ” 

“ And yet, you ” 

“ That is another thing, entirely. Years 
ago, when I was many leagues from this 
place, I had it in my power to render a 
very great service to an eminent chemist, 
and he made me a present of this — this 
product of his art. To trace this bottle 
l)ack to its origin would be an impossibil- 
ity, for it is more than ten years since it 
came into my hands, and the chemist is 
dead.” 

•‘ Ten years ago ! ” 

“Twelve, I think. And yet this sub- 
stance has not lost one of its precious 
qualities;” 

‘* How can you be certain of this? ” 

“ I experimented only a month ago. I 
threw a pinch of this powder into a bowl 
of milk and gave it to a stout bull-dog. 
He lapped the milk for ten seconds and 
then rolled over dead.” 

Overwhelmed with cold horror. Made- 
moiselle de Laurebourg started back. 

‘•Horrible!” she stammered, “horri- 
ble!” 

A smile quivered on the thin lips of the 
President. 

“Why do you say horrible? The dog 
had been bitten. He might have gone 
mad and bitten me, and I should have ex- 
pired in frightful agony. Was it not a 
case of legitimate self-defense? A man is 
more dangerous than a dog. A man as- 
sassinates me morally — I suppress him. 
Am I guilty — the law says yes, and con- 


demns me. In my opinion, however, it is 
better to kill the devil than — ” 

Diane’s hand laid violently on the mmith 
of the President abruptly ended this ex- 
posure of his monstrous theories. 

“ Listen ! ” she said. 

A heavy step was heard on the stairs. 

“ Norbert ! ” gasped Diane. 

“ Impossible ! It may be his father.” 

“It is Norbert,” repeated Mademoiselle 
de Laurebourg, and snatching from Dau- 
man’s hands the black vial, she thrust it 
into her bosom. 

He opened the door, and the President 
and Diane uttered an exclamation of terror. 

All about indicated some terrible catas- 
trophe — his automatic walk, his haggard 
eyes, and the blood on his face. 

Dauman scented some crime. 

“ You are wounded. Marquis,” he said. 

“ Yes ; my father struck me.” 

“ Can it be possible that he ” 

“ Yes, it was he! ” 

Mademoiselle Diane, too, had feared 
something worse than this ; she trembled 
like a leaf as she went towards Norbert. 

•‘ Permit me to examine your wound,” 
she said, softly. She took his head between 
her hands, and stood on tip-toe the better 
to see. Good heavens! one inch lower 
down and ” She shuddered. “Pres- 

ident, give me some water and some old 
linen ” 

But Norbert disengaged himself and 
gently thrust her aside. 

“We will attend to this trifle later. I 
avoided the blow, which, had it come in 
full force, would have felled me to the 
ground; and without this involuntary 
movement, I should have been murdered 
by my father.” 

‘ ‘ By the Due ? And for what ? ” 

“ He insulted you. Diane : and he dared 
to tell me of it — to boast *of it to me I Did 
he not know that in my veins, as well as 
his, runs the blood of the Champdoce 
race?” 

Mademoiselle de Laurebourg burst into 
tears. 

“ And it is I,” she sobbed — “ it is I who 
brought all this upon you.” 

‘•You! You saved his life, probably. 
For him to dare strike me with his cane, as 
if I had been a lacquey ! But the thought 
of you withheld my hand. I turned and 
fled, and never again will I cross that 
threshold. We hear a great deal of a 
father's curse ; that of a son should have 
equal weight. ’ The Due de Champdoce is 
my father no longer — I know him no 
more. Would that I could forget his very 
existence. No. I prefer to remember 
him that I may yet avenge myself.” 

Never in his life had Dauman felt such 
intense joy. All his execrable character 
thrilled at these words. 

At last. Marquis, you will begin to be- 
lieve with me that there is some good in 
almost all misfortunes. Your father has 


182 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


committed an imprudence which will cost 
him dear. It is marvellous that a man as 
wise as the astute Due de Champdoce could 
have been guilty of such an oversight.” 

“ What do you mean? ” 

‘‘ Simply that it rests with us, now. to 
shake off the paternal yoke just as soon as 
we choose. At last we possess all the 
requisites for a formal complaint. We 
have sequestration, threats, violence with 
the aid of third parties, wounds and blows 
which have imperilled life — we have every- 
thing we want, in fact. A physician will 
come, who will examine your head and 
make a written report, which we will keep. 
Are these facts to be denied? By no 
means. We can produce plenty of wit- 
nesses — and. as to the wound, the scar 
will tell the story. To begin with, we 
shall set forth in our petition, that we are 
not to be ordered back to the paternal 
mansion. Our petition will set forth that 
the Due de Champdoce, having done vio- 
lence to our most lawful, etc. Then we 

get judgment in our favor, and ” 

That will do,” interrupted Korbert. 
“Will this judgment give me the right to 
marry, when it seems good to me, without 
the consent of Monsieur de Champdoce? ” 

Dauman hesitated. In his opinion, under 
all the circumstances, Norbert ought to be 
able to obtain authority to contract an hon- 
orable alliance, yet he thought it advisable 
not to say so. 

He answered then, boldly : 

“No, Marquis, it will not ” 

“ Then why petition ? The Champdoce 
family have always washed their dirty 
linen at home, and I prefer to do the same.” 

This determination seemed to astonish 
the President. 

“ If I dared,” he began — “ if I dared to 
advise you, sir ” 

“ No. No advice is necessary ; my mind 
is made up. But I need some assistance, 
and I must have, within twenty-four hours, 
a large sum — twenty thousand francs.” 

“You can have them, sir; but I must 
warn you that it will be at a heavy cost.” 

“ I care nothing for that ! ” 

Mademoiselle de Laurebourg tried to 
speak, but Norbert arrested her with a ges- 
ture. 

“Do you not understand me, then, 
Diane?” he said. “We must fly! Let us 
go at once. We can find some retreat 
where we can live happy and obscure.” 

“ But this is folly I ” cried Diane. 

“ You will be pursued,” said the Pres- 
ident. 

“ Is it true, Diane, that you can hesitate 
to confide your life to me? I swear to 
consecrate to you my entire existence — all 
my thoughts, all my will; I ask you on 
my knees to go with me ! ” 

“I cannot!” she murmured, “I can- 
not!” 

“You do not love me!” he cried, in a 
tone of despair. “ Fool that I am, I be- 


lieved that your heart was mine, but I see 
now that you never loved me ! ” 

‘ ^ Thou hearest him ! Oh, my God, Thou 
knowest that I love him ! ” 

“Then why reject our only means, of 
safety?” 

“ Norbert, my dear Norbert ” 

“ I understand only too well. The 
thought of the world’s dread talk fright- 
ens you — there are prejudices, opinions 


He stopped, checked by the reproach in 
the eyes of Diane. 

“ Must it be? ” she said. “ Must I con- 
descend to justify myself? You talk to 
me of prejudices — have I not defied them 
already, and has not the world sat in judg- 
ment upon me? And yet what have I 
done? Every word we either of us have 
breathed, I can repeat to my mother with- 
out a blush; but will any one believe me? 
No, not one. The opinion of the world is 
already made up, probably. My reputa- 
tion is unquestionably gone, and yet I am 
as innocent as a child.” 

Norbert was furious. “Who dares 
breathe your name except with the most 
profound respect?” 

“ Alas ! my friend, everybody. And to- 
morrow it will be worse still. Some hours 
a^o, while your father was talking to me 
with such appalling violence and contempt,* 
there were four persons hidden in the 
woods who heard him.” 

“ It is impossible! ” 

“ No, it is true,” affirmed Dauman. “ I 
heard it all from one of these four ” 

If ever a man received a quiet intimation 
to leave a room it was convej^ed in that 
glance from Mademoiselle de Laurebourg. 

“ Excuse me,-’ he said, hastily. “ Some 
one is calling, and I must prevent any one 
from coming in here ! ” 

He departed, shutting the door loudly 
behind him. It needed this noise for Nor- 
bert to notice that he and Diane were 
alone in the room together. 

He cared little for this, it seemed. 

“ So,” he said, “the Due de Champdoce 
did not care to take even the ordinary pre- 
caution of ascertaining that there was no 
one to overhear his insults. And he was so 
blind that he did not realize that in dis- 
honoring you he was dishonoring himself.” 

Alas! ” 

“ Does he think that in this way he can 
force me to marry this heiress whom he 
has selected — this Marie de Piiymandom'.” 

At last Diane knew the name of the 
woman whom the Due had chosen as her 
rival. 

“Ah!” she murmured between her 
parched lips, “it is Mademoiselle Marie, 
then, who is offered to you. Yes, it is she 
— or rather her millions.” 

“ But my hand shall dry up to powder 
before it takes hers. You hear me^ 
Diane?” 

She smiled sadly as she murmured : 


THE SLAVES OF PAEIS. 


183 


‘‘ Poor Norbert I ” 

These two words were uttered in such a 
melancholy tone that the young man’s 
heart sank. 

“ You are cruel ! ” he exclaimed. “What 
have I ever done to merit this distrust? ” 

Mademoiselle did not answer, and be- 
lieving that he now understood the reason 
why she refused to elope with him, he 
exclaimed : 

“Is it because you doubt me that you 
will not go with me? ” 

“ No, it is not any distrust of you that 
deters me.” 

“ But what is it, then? Is it not liberty 
and happiness which I offer you? What 
is it?” 

She rose, and throwing her head back 
with haughty pride, she said: “ My con- 
science, which hitherto has enabled me to 
hold my head high in spite of the gossip 
which I knew was going on about me. 
Now it cries out ‘ Stop I I can go no fur- 
ther.’ Heavy as may be my burden, in- 
tolerable as my duty has become — and in 
spite of a breaking heart — I must di’aw 
back now ; I cannot go with you.” 

A nervous spasm contracted her throat, 
but she waited a moment and then con- 
tinued with more firmness : 

“ Were I alone in the world, I would 
not hesitate, perhaps; but I have ties, I 
have a family whose honor is a sacred 
trust.” 

“ A family which sacrifices you to an 
elder brother.” 

“That may be — so much the more 
merit in me if I do my duty. Where did 
you ever hear that virtue was easy ? ” 

She had set an example of utter insub- 
ordination, but Norbert was in no state of 
mind to perceive this contradiction. 

Here she continued : 

“My reason and my conscience dictate 
the same course. For a young girl to set 
at defiance social rules and conventionali- 
ties, the result must be fatal. You would 
soon cease to esteem her whom others 
despised.” 

“ What opinion have you of me, then? ” 

“I believe you to be a man, my friend. 
Let us suppose that I follow you to-day, 
and that to-morrow you should hear that 
my father has fought a duel on my ac- 
count, and that he was killed — what then? 
Believe me, then, that when I bid you de- 
part, and alone, I give you the best possi- 
ble advice. You will forget me, I know, 
and I — cannot hope you will.” 

“ Forget you ! ” cried Norbert. “ I for- 
et you? Can you forget me?” he cried, 
ercely. 

He was so close to her that she felt his 
burning breath. 

“ I,” she stammered — “I can.” 

Norbert drew back that he might better 
look down into her eyes. 

“ And if I go,” he asked, “ what would 
become of you? ” 


At this question Mademoiselle de Laure- 
bourg seemed to lose countenance. A sob 
escaped from her breast, and her strength 
seemed to fail her all at once. 

“I,” she answered, in as sweet and 
resigned a voice as if she had been a Chris- 
tian martyr about to enter the arena, “ I 
know my fate. We see each other now 
for the last time. I shall return to Laure- 
bourg — where all is known — or will be 
in a few hours. I shall find my father 
irritated and threatening — he will order 
me into a carriage, and to-morrow I shall 
be in the convent.” 

“Never! Never! That life would be 
to you one slow agony — you have told 
me so over and over again.” 

“Yes,” she answered, “it would be 
agony ; but it is a duty, also. And when 
the burden grows too heavy — when I can 
no longer bear it ” 

As she spoke she had drawn the vial 
from her bosom, and Norbert understood 
what she meant. 

He tried to snatch it from her — she 
resisted. But this contest seemed to have 
exhausted the little strength remaining to 
Mademoiselle Diane. Her beautiful eyes 
closed, her head fell back, and she herself 
sank into Norbert’s arms, while he, with 
horror, asked himself if she were dying. 
Dying she might have been, and yet she 
murmured a few words in a distinct, 
though low whisper. 

She implored Norbert to restore to her 
that precious vial, her only friend and 
liberator. Then, with truly wonderful 
lucidity, she contrived to repeat to him all 
the directions given by Dauman. 

“ Oh, my friend,” she said, “ give it to 
me. I shall not suffer — in ten seconds 
all will be over. A mere pinch in wine or 
coffee. No one would ever suspect, for it 
leaves no trace.” 

At the thought that this woman whom 
he loved, loved him in return so tenderly 
and passionately that she would rather 
die than live apart from him, Norbert felt 
his senses reel. 

“Diane!” he repeated, as he leaned 
over her : “ Diane ! ” 

But she continued, as if in delirium ; 

“ To die after so many fair hopes ! Ah ! 
Monsieur de Champdoce, you are pitiless, 
indeed. You have robbed me of my hap- 
piness; you have insulted me; lowered 
me in the estimation of the world ; black- 
ened my reputation, and now you want 
my life. Thanks, sir.” 

Norbert uttered a cry of anger that 
frightened even Dauman in the corridor, 
and laid Diane gently from his arms into 
the President’s arm-chair. 

“No,” he said, in a hoarse voice, “ you 
will not kill yourself, and I shall not de- 
part either!” 

He looked at her — she smiled faintly, 
extending her arms to him, and murmured 
his name. 


184 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


This was the last drop of the philter she 
had mixed. 

‘‘You shall he mine,” he murmured; 
“ and the poison which you intended for 
yourself shall be the instrument of my 
vengeance and the chastisement of sins.” 

And with the mechanical step of a som- 
nambulist, he withdrew from the office. 

Norbert's step still resounded in the 
corridor when Dauinan entered his office. 

This scene, of which he had not lost one 
gesture, intonation, or expression, had 
agitated him to a terrible degree. 

But he could not believe himself to be 
awake when he saw Diane, whom he sup- 
posed to be fainting, standing before the 
window with her brow pressed against the 
glass, watching Yorbert as he went down 
the lane. 

“ What a woman ! ” he murmured. My 
God I what a woman she is ! ” 

Norbert turned into the highway, and 
when Diane could no longer see him, she 
turned around. She was pale, certainly ; 
but not extraordinarily so. Her eyelids 
were red and swollen, but her eyes flashed 
with the pride of success. 

“To-morrow, President,” she said — 
“to-morrow I shall be the Duchesse de 
Champdoce.” 

He was so utterly overwhelmed that he 
— this village orator, this man of many 
words — was utterly speechless. 

“ At least,” added Diane, “ I should say 
if all is accomplished to-night.” 

Dauman felt a cold shiver creep along 
his spine. 

He summoned all his self-possession. 

“I do not understand you,” he said; 
“ what is it, Mademoiselle, that you hope 
will be accomplished to-night? Pray ex- 
plain ” 

She turned upon him a look that was so 
contemptuous and ironical, that his sen- 
tence ended in an inarticulate murmur. 

He recognized his error. 

He thought he could play with this lady 
like a cat ^vith a mouse, but he was mis- 
taken ; it was she who was playing with 
him. He had been her dupe. 

“ There is no doubt of success, of course ” 
she said, coldly, “only — Norbert is awk- 
ward sometimes. I must return at once.” 

Then, in a tone which indicated, in spite 
of her self-control, her mental anguish 
and the horrible fear which was hers, 
she added : 

“And this night, how long it will be! 
Will to-morrow ever be here? Farewell. 
When we meet again. President, all will be 
decided ! ” 

Before Mademoiselle de Laurebourg left 
him, she had intentionally made him mis- 
erable by the doubt she expressed of Nor- 
bert’s dexterity. 

Those four words, “ Yorbert is awkward 
sometimes,” were like a great stone oscil- 
lating in his head and ready to crush him. 

He shrank, as it were, into his arm-chair. 


and with his elbows on his desk and his 
head on his hands, he tried to think. Per- 
haps at this moment all was accomplished. 

“Where was Norbert,” he asked him- 
self, “ and what was he doing? ” 

Norbert was at that minute in the road 
that leads to Champdoce. He had lost his 
head entirely, and yet he thought he was 
reasoning clearly. Those persons who 
have anything to do with madmen know 
wdth what startling lucidity they draw 
logical conclusions from their bewildered 
minds. 

The darkness which rested on his facul- 
ties seemed to throw into stronger relief 
his sinister determination. He already 
saw precisely how he should carry out his 
guilt. 

All the peaple of Champdoce, and Nor- 
bert among them, drank the wine of the 
country — very healthy it w^as, but also 
very sour. The Due, for his especial use, 
kept in reserve a better quality, which was, 
made on his estate at Medoc. 

The master’s wine was served in a great 
bottle which, after each meal, was placed 
on one of the shelves in the pantry off the 
dining-room, where it was within sight 
and touch of all ; but it would have been 
as much as any one’s life was worth to 
touch it. Norbert thought of this bottle. 
He saw if just as it stood on the shelf. 

When he entered the court-yard all the 
laborers who were there, busy with their 
loads of straw, stopped their work and 
looked at him curiously. 

He, however, paid no heed to them, but 
walked straight on to the dining-hall. It 
was empty. He uttered a sigh of satis- 
faction. 

Then with a prudence which was not to 
have been looked for in the state of mind 
in which he was, he opened each door in 
succession, in order to assure himself that 
he was not watched. 

Immediately, with excessive rapidity 
and a certain odd precision of movement, 
he took down the bottle, uncorked it with 
his teeth, and dropped, not one pinch, but 
two or three pinches of the powder in the 
vial. 

He returned to the bottle several times 
and shook it, as if to hasten the dissolution 
of the powder, but he did it gently and 
cautiously, lest he should render the wine 
turbid or cause it to ferment. 

Some specks of the powder clung to the 
rim of the bottle. He wiped them off, not 
with a napkin that lay on a pile near by, 
but with his own pocket-handkerchief. 

He replaced the bottle on the shelf, and 
took his customary seat in the corner, and 
waited. 

At this moment Monsieur de Champ- 
doce was seen coming up the avenue at a 
rapid pace. 

For the first time in his whole life, 
probably, this man, headstrong and obsti- 
nate as he was, had come to feel that one 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS, 


185 


of his acts was absurd, and that he had 
ample reason to regret it. 

The considerations which had struck 
Dauman — that apostle of the law — pre- 
sented themselves to the mind of the Due 
with overwhelming force. 

He saw at once that he had given all the 
grounds for a petition by his rashness. 
What would be the results? The courts, 
if they should take hold of the ajOTair, 
would be likely to remove his son from 
his control. The. idea of an appeal of this 
kind would certainly never occur to Nor- 
bert of himself, but there would be plenty 
of people to suggest it. 

All these reflections increased his rage, 
but at the same time clearly demonstrated 
the absolute necessity of conducting af- 
fairs with the greatest possible caution, 
lie did not relinquish his views in regard 
to Mademoiselle de Puymandour. Ko — 
he would sooner have renounced life itself ; 
but he resigned himself to the conviction 
that for violence he must substitute cun- 
ning. 

The point of greatest importance now 
was to bring ISTorbert back. Would he 
ever consent to enter the chateau again ? 

While ruminating, with a heavy frown, 
a servant came in haste to tell him that 
Norbert had returned. 

‘‘ I have him I he muttered, and he hur- 
ried to the chateau. 

When he entered the dining-rooin, Nor- 
bert, forgetting his customary deference, 
did not rise as usual. 

This infraction of the rules of domestic 
etiquette struck the Due forcibly and un- 
pleasantly . 

Upon my word,” he thought, ‘‘ it looks 
as if the simpleton thought himself no 
longer bound by any duty toward me.” 

But he allowed none of the uneasiness 
caused by this simple circumstance to ap- 
pear. Besides, the blood still on his son’s 
face caused him a very uncomfortable sen- 
sation. 

‘^Norbert, my friend!” he exclaimed, 
“ are you in pain ? Why have you not had 
your wound dressed ? ” 

He waited for a reply. As none came, 
he continued : 

“Why is not this blood washed away? 
Is it left as a reproach to me? I did not 
need it, I assure you, my son, for I deplore, 
most deeply, my — my violence.” 

Norbert still did not speak, and this si- 
lence embarrassed him frightfully. 

In this extremity, more to give himself 
an air of ease than because he was thirsty, 
he took from the shelf a wine-glass, and 
then went for his especial bottle of wine, 
from which he half fllled his glass. 

Herbert shivered from head to foot. 

“Come, now, my boy,” said the Due, 
“come, now — try and find some excuse 
for your old fathkv— I am ready to apolo- 
gize. A man of honor is never ashamed 
to acknowledge his errors.” 


He took up his glass and mechanically 
held it up to the light 

Herbert held his breath; it seemed to 
him that the very world was slipping from 
under his feet. 

“It is cruel,” continued the Due; “it is 
sad for a man to humiliate himself thus 
before his son, and to do so uselessly.” 

In vain did Herbert turn away liis head. 
He saw Monsieur de Champdoce put his 
lips to the glass. He drank. Ho! Her- 
bert could not endure that. With one 
bound he was at his father's side, and 
snatching the glass, he threw it from the 
window, shouting in a terrible voice : 

“ Do not drink it ! ” 

Herbert's face, his voice, his movement, 
required no explanation. 

A terrible light flashed upon his father. 

His features quivered, his face became 
suffused, his. eyes were infected with blood 
— he opened his lips to speak, but only a 
hoarse rattle was heard ; he extended his 
arms convulsively, and then fell back — 
striking the back of his head against the 
corner of a heavy oak dresser. 

Herbert threw open the door. 

“Come quick!” he cried, “tielp! I 
have killed my father ! ” 


CHAPTER XXXVI . 

All that the Due de Champdoce had 
said of the mad desire for distinction, title, 
and nobility, which filled the soul of Mon- 
sieur de Puymandour, was far less than 
the sad, j^et ludicrous reality. 

He was happier in his earlier days, when 
he called himself Palouzat — which was 
his father's name, who was an honest man 
— with no ambition beyond that title. 

In those days his importance was incon- 
testable. He was respected as a man who 
had been clever enough to amass honestly 
an enormous fortune. 

All this prestige vanished, however, on 
that day when the fatal idea entered his 
mind to affix to a dinner invitation the 
words : “ Count de Puymandour.” From 
this moment his troubles and tribulations 
began. Between the nobility, who laughed 
and refused to recognize him as one of 
themselves, and the middle class, who 
mocked at his pretensions, he was like a 
shuttlecock between two battledoors, 
thrown to and fro, and battered and 
banged. 

It may then be easily imagined with 
what eagerness he desired the marriage of 
his daughter with the son of the great and 
powerful Due de Champdoce. He had 
sacrificed the third of his fortune to the 
honor of this alliance, and would have 
given the whole of it to have dandled on 
his knees an infant in whose veins ran the 
mingled blood of the Palouzats and the 
heroes of the Crusades. 

This marriage, would, of course, put an 


186 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


end to all his trials, as his son-in-law would 
naturally silence all jests. 

The day following that on which he had 
received a definite reply from the Due, 
Monsieur Puymandour determined to in- 
form his daughter of his intentions. 

He never dreamed of any obstacle, and 
had every reason to believe that she would 
be as pleased as himself. 

It was in the morning, in a richly decor- 
ated room which he called his library, that 
he came to this determination. 

He rang, and a servant appeared. 

Go,” he said, and ask mademoiselle’s 
maid if my daughter can grant me an in- 
terview.” 

It was with an air of the greatest solem- 
nity that he gave this strange order, which, 
however, did not seem to astonish the ser- 
vant. The intercourse between father and 
daughter was on this basis. 

For a long time Monsieur de Puyman- 
dour had adopted in his household an eti- 
quette, which scoffers laughingly declared 
was copied from the court of an old arch- 
duchess. 

Less than two minutes after the servant 
left the room there was a little scratch on 
the door. De Puymandour called out 

come in,” and almost immediately Made- 
moiselle Marie rushed in, and kissed her 
father heartily, first on one cheek and then 
the other. 

He frowned, and disengaged himself. 

Why did you come to me, Marie ; I 
asked if you would receive me.” 

“ To be sure you did, dear father; but I 
thought it more natural for me to come 
here : besides, it was much more quickly 
done. Pray do not be vexed.” 

‘‘Always the same story. When will 
you acquire the dignity and sobriety which 
should characterize a young person of your 
rank and position? ” 

Mademoiselle smiled a little — oh, a very 
little — for she recognized her father’s ab- 
surdities ; but she was not disposed to sit 
in judgment upon them, for she loved him 
very tenderly. 

She was very charming, and the Due de 
Champdoce had not flattered the portrait 
that he had drawn of her to Korbert. 

Although entirely opposite in style to 
Mademoiselle de Laurebourg, the beauty 
of Marie de Puymandour was equally daz- 
zling and rare. She was tall and divinely 
made, while her movements had that be- 
witching, easy grace which is one of the 
charms of women of southern birth. 

Her large, black, velvety eyes were in 
strange contrast to her smooth, fair skin, 
soft as the petals of a tea rose. Her hair 
was always, no matter what might be the 
fashion of the day, loosely knotted low at 
the back of her head. 

But she had a tender nature, capable of 
intense devotion, and angelic sweetness of 
disposition which never degenerated into 
weakness, and a happy disposition which 


needed affection, however, for its full ex- 
pansion. 

“Now, dear papa,” she said, “do not 
scold me. You know that the Marquis 
d’Ailange has promised to give me all 
sorts of lessons in deportment next win- 
ter. I promise you that I will practice 
them all in secret, and you, yourself, will 
be intimidated when I appear with them.” 

“How like a woman!” he muttered — 
“frivolous creatures for whom the gravest 
interests are only subjects for jests and 
scoffs.” 

He rose and went to the chimney, and 
there took up a position, one hand in the 
opening of his vest, the other ready to 
gesticulate. This was the attitude he 
affected when he meditated some grand 
oratorical effect. 

“ Favor me with your attention,” he be- 
gan. “You were eighteen last month. 
I have an important piece of news for you. 
I have had an application for your hand.” 

Marie dropped her eyes and" endeavored 
to conceal her confusion. 

“ Before coming to a decision on a sub- 
ject so grave,” continued Monsieur de 
Puymandour, “it was, of course, neces- 
sary for me to think long and seriously. 
I took every means of investigation. I 
am certain that the alliance which is pro- 
posed offers every guarantee of human 
happiness The young man is onl v" a few 
years older than yourself. He is good- 
looking, his fortune is considerable — he 
is of good family, and bears the title of 
Marquis ” 

“He has spoken to you, then?” inter- 
rupted Marie, in an agitated tone. 

“He? Who is he?” 

As the girl did not answer, her father 
repeated the question. 

“Who is he?” 

“ Monsieur Georges de Croisenois.” 

“ What have you to do with Croisenois? 
And who is this Marquis de Croisenois? 
Is he that fop with the moustache, that I 
have seen hanging round your skirts this 
winter? ” 

“ Yes,” she stammered, “ that is he.” 

“ Why should you suppose that he has 
asked for your hand? Did you know that 
he intended doing so? ” 

“ I swear to you ” 

‘ ‘ My daughter — a Puymandour — lis- 
tens to a declaration, and conceals it from 
her father. Zounds! He has written to 
you, I suppose, also! What have you 
done with these letters ? ” 

“ Dear father ” 

“Silence! You have preserved these 
letters — I shall see them.” 

“ Dear father ” 

“The letters!” interrupted Monsieur 
de Puymandour in a most formidable voice, 
“where are they? I shall have them if 
I turn over the whole house ! ” 

These precious letters she surrendered 
to her father — there were four, tied to- 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


187 


gether by a blue ribbon. He drew one out 
and read it aloud, interspersing the read- 
ing with invectives and exclamations : 

“ Mademoiselle — Although I fear 
nothing in the world so much as your dis- 
pleasure, I dare, notwithstanding your 
command, to write to you once more. I 
learn that you are on the point of leaving 
Paris for several months. 

I am twenty-four. I am an orphan, 
and my own master. I belong to an old 
and honorable family. My fortune is 
large, and I love you with the most sin- 
cere and respectful love. 

My great-uncle — Monsieur de Saumeuse 
— who knows your father, will act as my 
intermediary on his return from Italy, 
where he will remain about three or four 
weeks longer at most. Once more, im- 
ploring your forgiven(3SS, 

I remain, 



Very nice indeed — very nice,” he 
said, as" he replaced it in the envelope. 
‘‘This is quite enough for me — I need 
read no more. And what did you write in 
return?” 

“ That he might go to you, dear father.” 

“ Indeed! you do me too much honor, 
upon my word. And you thought that I 
would listen patiently to propositions from 
such a source? You love him, then? ” 

She turned her face toward her father, 
and tears streamed down her cheeks. 

This avowal, for avowal it was, exas- 
perated Monsieur de Puymandour. 

“You love him!” he exclaimed “and 
you have the audacity to avow it. 

Marie looked up quickly. “ The Mar- 
quis de Croisenois,” she said, “is of good 
family.” 

“Pshaw, you know nothing about it. 
The first Croisenois was an errand boy of 
Richelieu's. Louis XIII conferred this 
title upon him, for some dirty piece of 
business he had executed for him. Has 
your pretty Marquis any visible means of 
subsistence? ” 

“ Most certainly. About fifty thousand 
livres per annum.” 

“ Stuff and nonsense. What did he hope 
to gain by addressing you secretly? 
What could he hope except to compromise 
you and interest you — and who knows — 
to break off your marriage with another?” 

“ But why suppose ” 

“ I suppose nothing — I state facts. Do 
ou know what a man of honor does when 
e becomes in love? ” 

“Dear father — ” 

“ He goes to his notary, and lays before 
him his intentions and position. This no- 
tary goes to the family lawyer — the no- 
tarv, rather, of the young lady herself — 
and when these notaries have studied out 
everything, and find everything satisfac- 
tory, then the heart is allowed to speak.” 

“Xow,” continued her father, “you 


may as well attend to me. Forget this 
Croisenois as quickly as possible. I have 
chosen a husband for you, and I have 
given my word of honor — and you will 
keep it. Sundaj^ the young man will be 
presented to you. Monday, a visit to the 
bishop, to ask him to bless your union; 
Tuesday, a walk in the country, arm in 
arm, to announce the engagement; Wed- 
nesday, reading of the contract; Thurs- 
day, a great dinner ; Friday, examination 
of the trousseau ; Sunday, the banns, and 
at the end of the week after, the wedding 
will take place.” 

Madamoiselle Marie listened aghast. 

“ For Heaven's sake, dear papa, be 
serious ! ” 

“ Finally,” he added, as an after-thought 
“ you would possibly like to know the 
name of the husband, I propose you. He 
is the young Marquis Xorbert, the son of 
the Due de Champdoce.” 

Marie turned deadly pale. 

“But Ido not know him!” she stam- 
mered. 

“ I know him, then, and that is quite 
enough. I have told you that you could 
yet be a Duchess, and I mean it.” 

Marie loved Monsieur de Croisenois 
more than she had told her father — more 
even than she dared avow to herself. She 
resisted at first, therefore, with a heroism 
that did not seem to belong to her mild 
nature and weak character. 

But Monsieur de Puymandour was not 
the man to abandon thus readily the 
chimera of his life. He never left his 
daughter for a minute in peace — he ar- 
gued, insisted and domineered — until on 
the third evening, Marie surrendered, and 
uttered the fatal “yes” with sobs and 
tears. 

The word had scarcely passed her lips 
when her father, not lingering even to 
thank her for the sacrifice, exclaimed : 

“ I must go at once to Champdoce. For 
three days I have heard nothing from 
there. The Due and I had not settled 
several points I ” and he departed, calling 
back as he passed through the door : 

“Am revoir! little Duchesse — au re- 
voir ! ” 

He had great reason to desire to see the 
Due, for when they had parted, three days 
before, that gentleman had said to him, 
“ To-morrow you will hear from me,” but 
not a word had come. 

This delay had suited Monsieur de Puy- 
mandour, as it had given him time to ob- 
tain from Mademoiselle Marie her consent, 
but this being accomplished he now began 
to feel very anxious. Could anything 
have gone wrong? 

He went on at a very good pace, in spite 
of the heat, which was great enough to 
make walking a serious discomfort. When 
he reached Bevron, he saw Dauman talk- 
ing earnestly with a daughter of the 
Widow Rouleau. 


188 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


Monsieur de Puymandour bowed affably 
and stopped, for he was now courting 
popularity, preparatory to an election he 
had in view. He never failed to accost 
those persons whom he knew to be influ- 
ential. IN'ow Dauman was an active agent 
in elections. 

‘‘ Good-morning, President I ” he cried ; 
‘‘ what is all the news.” 

Dauman bowed down to the ground. 

Sad news, sir,” he answered; ‘‘ I hear 
that the Due de Champdoce is very ill.” 
The Due ! Impossible ! ” 

“ It is this girl who has just told me so. 
Tell us all about it, Prancoise.” 

‘‘ I have just heard at the chateau that 
it is quite impossible for him to recover.” 

“ But what is the trouble? ” 

I did not hear.” 

Monsieur de Puymandour stood aghast. 
That is always the way in this world,” 
observed Dauman, philosophically. In 
the midst of life we are in death ” 

‘‘ Good-bye, President,” interrupted De 
Puymandour: I must try and discover 

some further particulars.” 

He hurried on, breathless and anxious. 

All the people belonging to the chateau 
— servants and farm-hands — were gath- 
ered together in the court-yard, talking 
earnestly. 

As soon as Monsieur de Puymandour 
made his appearance, one of these servants 
left his fellows and went forward. This 
was the Due's confidential valet. 

‘‘Well!” cried Monsieur de Puyman- 
dour. 

“Oh! sir, what a terrible misfortune! 
My poor master ” 

“AVill he die?” 

“Alas! my poor master will never be 
any better! ” 

“ But,” he asked, “ you have not told 
me — no one has told me — how he was 
taken.” 

“Oh! like' lightning,” answered Jean, 
with a momentary hesitation. “It was 
day before yesterday, about this time in 
the day — the Due was alone with Mon- 
sieur ]S'orbert in the dining-room — 
suddenly we heard the most frightful 
cries 

“We ran, and what did we see? My 
master on the ground unconscious, his face 
all swollen and black ” 

“ He had a fit of apoplexy, then? ” 

“Xo, sir; not exactly — the physician 
called it a suffusion of blood to the brain. 
I think that was what he said. But, at all 
events, they did say that the reason he did 
not die instantly, was because, in falling, 
he cut his head on the oak dresser and the 
wound bled profusely. We carried him 
to his bed, and he was stiff and ” 

“ And now? ” 

“ Well, now. no one can say anything ; my 
master neither sees nor hears, and if he 
should recover, which I for one do not 
believe to be within the limit of possi- 


bility, the doctor says his mind will be 
gone.” 

“Frightful! Frightful! A man so re- - 
markable as he ! I do not ask you to let 
me go up-stairs, because I could do him 
no good, and the sight would be a most 
painful one ; but if I could see Monsieur 
ISTorbert ” 

“ Don't think of it, sir, I beg of you ! ” 

“I was his fathePs friend, his intimate 
friend, and if sympathy could soften his 
grief ” 

“ Impossible, sir,” answered the servant 
in a. strange, quick voice. “My young 
master is with his father, he has not left 
him for a moment — and he has given 
orders that he is not to be called on any 
pretense. But I must go to him now. We 
are looking for two physicians who are 
coming from Poitiers.” 

“ I will retire, then, and to-night I will 
send for intelligence.” 

Monsieur do Puymandour walked slow- 
ly out of the court-yard buried in deep 
thought. The whole attitude of the ser- 
vant — his voice, and the expression of his 
face— had struck him as very singular. 

He remembered the fact that I^orbert 
was alone with his father at the time of 
the accident. His mind being prepared by 
the resistance of his own daughter, lie 
hastily came to the conclusion that the 
Due had met with contradiction of a simi- 
lar character from his son, that a violent 
altercation had followed, and that the old 
nobleman had been attacked by apoplexjr, 
brought on by his vehement rage. 

llius did interest and passion so shape 
the natural penetration of this man he 
came singularly near the truth. 

“ If it comes to pass, then, that the Dhc 
dies or loses his mind,'’ said De Puyman- 
dour, “ it is all one to us, for IS’orbert will 
break off the negotiation entirely.” 

What should he do in that case? How 
avert the ridicule which would be heaped 
upon him? Only one means occurred to 
him. He could marry Marie to Monsieur 
de Croisenois at once, who was a brillia it 
and desirable partly in spite of all he had 
said to the contrary. 

A voice at his very ear started him. It 
was Dauman, who, by accident, found 
himself just there again. 

“Was the girl right, sir?” asked tlie 
President. “ How is the Due? And Mon- 
sieur Norbert? You saw him, of course?'’ 

“No; the poor fellow is overwhelmed 
with grief.” 

“ Of course, that is to be expected,” the 
President replied; “but it is a terrible 
thing indeed ! ” 

Monsieur de Puymandour was in too 
great a rage with Norbert to pity him very 
much. What would he not have given to 
know what the young man was doing at 
that moment, and how much more to 
know of what he was thinking? Norbert 
was just then kneeling at the side of his 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


189 


dying father ; and with a heart full of an- 
guish and remorse, was watching for some 
indication of returning life or reason. 

Three days of horror and self-abasement 
like this had made him a different man. 

It was only at the very last moment, 
when the poison fairly touched his father's 
lips, that he realized the horror and enor-- 
mity of his crime. 

His whole nature revolted, and in his 
ears sounded a formidable voice: As- 
sassin ! Parricide ! ’■ 

When his father fell back he had 
strength to shout for assistance ; but im- 
mediately afterward he was seized wi'h a 
wild fear, and ran out into the fields, as if, 
in fact, he hoped to escape from himself. 

Jean, the oldest servant in the chateau, 
who had witnessed the youth's precipitate 
flight, was, however, seized by a sinister 
apprehension. 

He had, it is true, a thousand reasons 
that the others had not; for, possessing 
the entire confidence of both his masters, 
he was fully informed of the dissensions 
which constantly arose between father 
and son. He knew'- the violence of their 
tempers, and knew, moreover, that some 
woman was arming N'orbert with addi-, 
tional strength for resistance. He had 
seen the frightful blow struck by the 
Due, and was amazed when he saw Nor- 
bert return. 

With what intentions had he come back 
to the chateau? 

Busy wi'i h his affairs in the court-yard, 
he had also seen Norbert throw a glass 
from the window. All these circumstan- 
ces seemed of such importance to the 
servant, that as soon as the Due was laid 
upon his bed, Jean went down to the din- 
ing-room, convinced that he should find 
something to confirm his fears. 

The bottle containing the wine drank by 
the Due stood on the table, three-quarters 
empty. What did this mean? With infi- 
nite cai e he poured several drops of this 
wine into the hollow of his hand; he 
tasted them cautiously. The wine pre- 
served its aroma and flavor. Ho matter. 
Obeying, the inspiration of his devotion 
and affection, Jean took the bottle, and 
taking care that he was not observed, 
carried it to his own room where he hid it. 
Having taken this precaution, he bade 
Mechinet watch at the side of the Due 
until the arrival of the physician, and 
then went to look for Norbert. 

For two mortal hours he searched in 
vain. At last, utterly discouraged, he 
turned back to the chateau, taking a path 
through the woods, and then he suddenly 
perceived a human form extended on the 
turf, under a tree. 

IJe advanced cautiously. Yes, it was 
Norbert himself who lay there. 

The faithful servant leaned over his 
youn^ master, and seeing that he was un- 
conscious, shook his arm with rough haste. 


At this grasp Norbert started to his feet 
with a wild cry. 

Jean realized, not by sight, but by in- 
stinct, the terror and hunted-down look in 
the ej^es of the youth. 

“ It is I,” he said. 

‘‘ Ah ! yes ; and what do you want? ” 

“I came to find you. master — to beg 
you to return with me to Champdoce. ” 

‘‘ Return to the chateau,” he answered, 
in a hoarse voice. ‘‘No; not now.” 

“ But you must, sir. Your absence 
would seem perfectly inconceivable. It 
would set people to talking, and strange 
things would be said. Your place is at 
your father's bedside.” 

“ Never ! No, never ! ” 

He said this ; but he made no resistance 
when Jean slipped his arm through his, 
and drew him along. 

Norbert allowed himself to be led in this 
way. 

Still leaning on Jean's arm, he crossed 
the court, and ascended the stairs; but 
when he reached the door of his father's 
room he stopped, and tried to withdraw 
his arm from Jean's grasp. 

‘‘ I will not ! ” he gasped ; “ I cannot ! ” 

” You can, and you shall. For. no mat- 
ter what else may come, the family honor 
shall not be tarnished in the eyes of the 
world.” 

These few words imparted to the youth 
sufficient strength to stagger across the 
room and sink on the floor by the bed. 
Once on his knees, with his forehead on 
his father's cold hand, he burst into tears. 
He sobbed aloud, and at the sound the men 
in the room breathed a sigh of relief. 
They were only simple peasants, but when 
they saw Norbert, as white as if every drop 
of blood had been drawn from his body, 
his lips quivering, and his eyes blazing 
with fever, they asked themselves if he 
were not mad? Indeed, he was not far 
from it. But with these tears relief came 
to his brain ; and with thought came suf- 
fering. 

He was sufficiently master of himself, 
when the physician arrived, to appear be- 
fore him simply as an anxious son. 

“ There is no hope for your father, 
young man,” he said, without attempting 
to soften the blow he dealt. “ If we suc- 
ceed in saving his life, we cannot hope to 
save his reason. We owe the truth to his 
relatives. You have it ! I shall return to- 
morrow.” 

Norbert did not go down-stairs with the 
physician. He had fallen into a chair, 
with his hands clasped around his head, 
which throbbed as if about to burst. He 
sat in this way for a . half hour or more, 
when suddenly he started to his feet with 
a stifled cry. 

He remembered the bottle in which he 
had dropped the poison, and which was 
left there. 

Had any one drank any of its contents? 


190 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


What had been done with it ? What might 
not have happened in all this time? 

The intensity of his suspense gave him 
strength to go down to the room. 

The bottle was not on the table, nor was 
it in its ordinary place upon the shelf. 

The poor fellow was looking for it in 
every corner, when a door opened, and 
Jean appeared on the threshold. At the 
sight of his young master, the faithful ser- 
vant was so shocked, that in his fright he 
nearly dropped the light he carried. 

“ Why are you here, sir?” he asked, in 
a trembling voice. 

‘‘I wanted ” stammered Norbert; 

“ I was lookii\g for ” 

The servant’s suspicions instantly be- 
came convictions. 

He went close to his youn^ master, and, 
as he leaned over him, he said in his ear : 

“ You are looking for that bottle, are 
you not? Well, it is safe. I have it in my 
room. To-morrow we two will throw 
away its contents, and there will be no 
proof.” 

Jean spoke so low, hardly articulating 
the syllables, that the words were divined 
rather from the movements of the lips than 
from any sound. 

And yet it seemed to I^orbert that this 
voice, which recalled his act, was like 
thunder, and filled the chateau from roof 
to cellar. 

“ Hush ! ” he said, looking around with 
mid, affrighted eyes. “ Hush ! ” 

What more, explicit confession than this 
was required? 

“Oh! we are alone, sir,” murmured 
Jean. “ Fear nothing. There are words, 
1 know very well, which should never be 
spoken. If I have dared say anything to 
3 ^ou of a matter which I accidentally dis- 
covered, it was because it was my duty to 
reassure you, and to warn you against any 
impmdence.” 

Norbert at once saw that the servant 
thought him more guilty than he really 
was. 

“ Jean,” he cried, “ what do you dare to 
believe ? My father never tasted that wine ! 
I snatched the glass from him before his 
lips had really touched it. 1 threw it out 
into the court-yard, and if you look you 
mil find its fragments.” 

“ I am not your judge, sir, and you need 
give me no explanations. Whatever you 
bid me believe, I will believe.” 

“Ah! he doubts me,” cried Norbert. 
“ He will not believe me. I swear — in 
the name of all I hold sacred — I swear to 
3 "Ou that I am innocent ! ” 

The old valet shook his head sadly. 

“ You must be so, sir, of course, for we 
two must save the honor of this house. 
But listen to me. Should it so happen that 
any suspicions are aroused — throw them 
all on me — I will defend myself, but in 
such a way that they will have all the 
more reason to believe me guilty — and I 


will not throw away the bottle — I will 
keep it in my room, where it may be found. 
That would be all the proof required. 
What does it matter how a poor man like 
me is sent to another world, while you — .” 

Norbert wrung his hands in despair. 
This sublime devotion on the part of Jean 
only proved to him that the man had no 
doubt of his young master’s guilt. 

Norbert endeavored once more to ex- 
plain, when suddenly a door was heard to 
shut loudly above stairs. 

“Hush!” said Jean; “ some one is com- 
ing. We must not be seen whispering to- 
gether like two conspirators; suspicion 
would certainly then be awakened. I can- 
not get rid of the idea that the secret may 
be read on my face, or in your eyes . Quick, 
sir ! go up-stairs and do your best to be 
calm. I entreat of you not to risk the 
honor of your family — it is that which is 
now at stake ! ” 

Horbert obeyed. 

His father’s room was deserted. One b}^ 
one the servants had left it, and on^v 
Mechinet, the veterinary shepherd, was 
there, doing his best to keep his eyes open. 

When the “ young master” appeared, he 
rose. 

“ The medicine has come,” he said, 
“ which the doctor ordered. I have given 
a spoonful to the Due, and it seems to me 
that it has produced a veiy decided effect.” 

Norbert allowed the man to go. and then 
wheeled a large arm-chair in front of the 
bed, and took a seat where he could see 
his father. 

Norbert was stunned, and it was with 
difficulty that he recalled the series of 
events which had conducted him to the 
abyss which had so nearly swallowed him. 

The bandage over his eyes dropped 
away, he saw clearly, and sat in judgment 
on what had occurred. He still heard his 
father's voice saying rudely : 

“This girl is an intrigante — she does 
not love jmu — she loves your name and 
jmur fortune.” 

He had then been indignant, and 
thought these words blasphemous. Alas ! 
the Due was right. He saw it now. 

How happened it that he had not seen 
that this young girl was throwing herself 
at his head; that her reserve and her 
frankness were alike art ; that she it was 
who had pushed him step by step into that 
fatal path, at the end of which she had 
thrust him into this frightful abyss ? 

Tlie monstrous meaning of this comedy 
played by Dauman flashed upon him. 

She whom he believed to be a pure and 
noble young girl was the accomplice of 
the President. They had worked together 
to excite his hatred to madness, and had 
finally given into his hands the poison 
which he was to administer to his father. 

He shivered as he realized all this, and 
his love for Diane de Laurebourg was 
transformed into violent loathing. 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS. 


191 


Day broke at last, and he, worn out, 
fell asleep. It was noon when he awoke. 
The sun was streaming into the room, and 
the doctor standing by the bedside of the 
invalid. He turned as Jlorbert stirred, 
and coming toward him, he said : 

‘‘We shall save his body.” 

The physician was correct; and that 
very night the Due de Champdoce was 
able to turn over in his bed. The next 
day he uttered a few unintelligible words, 
and later again he asked for something to 
eat. 

The intolerant will had vanished, the 
eye had lost its glitter, the whole physiog- 
nomy its intelligence. The Due would 
always be like this — always ! 

After realizing the enormity of his 
crime, ^KTorbert was now to measure the 
immensity of his chastisement. 

Not until now had Jean dared to speak 
of Monsieur de Puymandour's visit, and 
such was the change in Norbertythat he 
thought this visit a direct interposition of 
Providence. 

“So be it,” he said. “ My father’s 
wishes shall be carried out.” 

And without the loss of a minute he 
wrote to Monsieur de Puymandour that 
he expected him, and that he hoped the 
sorrow which had come to them would in 
no way change the plans in contemplation. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Like the miner who has lighted his 
train, and draws aside and waits for the 
explosion, did Diane de Laurebourg return 
to the paternal mansion after leaving 
Dauman. 

During supper — which was at nine 
o'clock at the Chateau de Laurebourg, it 
was impossible for her to speak, and it 
was with difficulty that she succeeded in 
swallowing two or three mouthfuls. 

Fortunately, neither the Marquis de 
Laurebourg nor the Marquise took any 
notice of her. 

They had received during the day a 
letter, with the intelligence that their son 
— the elder brother to whom they had 
sacrificed Diane — was lying dangerously 
ill in Paris, where he had a magnificent 
establishment. They were troubled and 
anxious, and talked of starting at once to 
be with him. 

They made no objection, and expressed 
no wonder, therefore, when, on leaving 
the table. Mademoiselle Diane announced 
that she had a frightful headache, and 
asked permission to retire. 

When she was alone in her room, and 
her maid had departed, she uttered a sigh 
of inexpressible relief. The thought of 
going to her couch never even occurred to 
her. She wrapped herself in a dressing- 
gown, and opening a window, leaned out 
over a carved balcony. 


It seemed to her impossible that Nor- 
bert should not attempt to see her, or to 
find, at least, some expedient to make her 
understand that he had succeeded or 
failed. 

“ I cannot hear anything,” she thought, 
“ until noon. I must be patient.” 

But patience did not come at her bid- 
ding. She was' out of the house as soon 
as the chateau was opened by the servants, 
and went to post herself in a path of the 
garden from which she could see the 
high-road. 

No one appeared. The bell rang for 
breakfast, and she must take her place 
there between her parents, and the pen- 
ance of the previous evening must again 
be repeated. 

Finally, about three o’clock, she could 
bear it no longer ; and she made her es- 
cape and rushed to find Dauman, who 
must, she thought, know something; and 
even if he were as ignorant as herself 
it would be a relief, at least, to speak and 
ask him when, in his opinion, this terrible 
suspense would come to an end. But she 
was mistaken; the President had passed 
as wretched a night as herself, and had 
nearly died of terror. He had remained 
in his office all the morning, starting at 
the least noise and not daring to go out, 
desirous as he was of information, until 
just before the moment when Diane 
started forth to find him ; and when Diane 
went into his office she found that he had 
returned, having ascertained that the 
physician had been sent for at a late hour 
the previous night to go at once to the 
Due de Champdoce, who was supposed to 
be dying. 

When Dauman saw Mademoiselle de 
Laurebourg his pale face fiushed, and, with 
very little respect or civility, he uttered a 
terrible oath. 

“ It is you, is it? ” he said. “ And what 
do you want? You are out of your senses 
to come here to-day. Do you wish to 
show all Bevron that you and I are Nor- 
bert’s accomplices? ” 

“ Good heavens ! what do you mean? ” 

“ I mean that the Due is not dead, and 
that if he recovers we are lost. When I 
say ‘ we,’ I mean myself, of course, for 
you will get clear of it all, being the 
daughter of a nobleman ; and we all know 
that they look out for each other, this 
nobility! Consequently, I shall have to 
pay for all.” 

“You said that it was instantaneous.” 

“ I did say so, and I thought so. Ah, if 
I had only known! You will see, how- 
ever, that I do not propose to submit 
quietly. I will defend myself and accuse 
you. I am an honest man myself, and you 
have made me your tool. You have kept 
yourself in the background and thought 
to pull all the wires. Your lover is a fool 

but he will lose his head all the same !’' 

At these insulting words Mademoiselle 


192 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


Diane started up and began to speak, but 
he interrupted her. 

‘‘ I have no time to choose the words in 
which to address you, for I feel as though 
I had a rope around my throat. N^ow, do 
me a favor; take yourself off and never 
show your face here again.” 

As you please. I will send to Champ- 
doce.” 

No, you will not ! ” exclaimed Dauman 
with a threatening gesture. Why do 
you not go yourself, and inquire how the 
Due de Champdoce enjoyed his poison?” 

But Diane was not deterred by this sar- 
casm. Anything seemed preferable to 
further suspense. 

Thanks to the precautions taken by Jean 
nothing of what had transpired at Champ- 
doce had found its way out. 

Dauman, therefore, found it necessary 
to send Francoise. He had provided him- 
self with an admirable excuse — he pre- 
tended to be in urgent need of money he 
had lent Mechinet, the veterinary shep- 
herd. 

He summoned Francoise, who, alas ! 
stood in great awe of him, and instructed 
her so skillfully that she had no suspicion 
of her real mission. 

He did not wait long. 

In less than twenty minutes he saw his 
messenger returning. He rose in all haste 
to meet her. 

“Well!” he said, breathlessly, “has 
that scamp of a Mechinet got me my 
money?” 

“ Alas ! no, sir. I could not even speak 
to him.” 

“ He was not there, then? ” 

“ I do not even know that. Ever since 
the master has been sick the gates of the 
chateau have been bolted, and not a human 
being is admitted. It seems that the poor 
gentleman is very low.” 

“ Did you hear what the matter was? ” 

“No, sir; and all I tell you I learned 
from a stable boy, who spoke through the 
gate to me. But he had not said ten words 
before Jean arrived.” 

“ Do you mean the Due’s valet? ” 

“ Precisely, answered Francoise; “and 
Jean was furious. He raved at the boy, 
and told him to go back to the stable and 
stay there ; and then he unbolted the gate 
and said to me : * Well, my girl, what do 
you want? ’ 1 told him that I had come to 

find Mechinet ; but before I could say f or 
what, he interrupted me and said : ‘ Well, 
he is not here ; you can call again next 
month.’ ” 

“ And was that all you did, simpleton? ” 

“Not exactly ; I said I must find Mechi- 
net. And then he glanced at me and said : 
‘ Who sent you here, little spy? ’ 

The President started. 

“ Ah ! and what did you answer? ” 

“ Why, I said you sent me, of course.” 

“ Ah! yes, that was right; and then?” 

“ Then Jean rubbed his chin and looked 


at me, and said, very slowly : ‘ So — you 
come from the President? I might have 
known it. Yes, I see, and he will see,, 
too ! ” 

Dauman, at these words, felt his legs 
yield under him, but he could not continue 
his interrogation, as at that moment he 
saw Monsieur de Puymandour passing 
along the highway on his road to the 
chateau. He dismissed Francoise, and 
waited the return of this gentleman from 
whom he should be able to learn every 
particular in relation to the illness of the 
Due. He carried out this plan, and was 
able at last to give Diane, who appeared 
in an hour, the following explanation. 

“Monsieur Norbert.” he said, ‘‘ did not 
give a strong enough dose. The Due has 
the constitution of an ox. But it will be 
all right. If he lives, he will be an idiot, 
and our end is achieved the same as if he 
died.” 

Diane was uneasy. 

“ But why dors not Norbert write? ” she 
murmured. ‘ • Why ? ' ' 

“Why? Because he had a vestige of 
common sense. Do you not know that 
there may be a dozen spies at his heels ? 
We must wait.” 

They waited. They waited for a week, 
and no sign from Norbert. 

Diane de Lau ebourg suffered agony, 
and these days grew more and more in- 
terminable in succession. 

Sunday at last arrived. 

The Marquise de Laurebourg had risen 
early and gone to early mass, and had 
given orders that her daughter should go 
to high mass accompanied by her maid. 
This arrangement suited Diane to perfec- 
tion, for she hoped she should see Norbert. 
Alas! no. The service had begun when 
she entered the church, but the Champ- 
doce chairs were vacant. 

She followed the service mechanically. 

She noticed, at last, that the Cure was 
in the pulpit. This was the exciting 
moment in the service for all Bevron, for it 
was then just before the ser ice that the 
banns of matrimony were announced. 

The Cure looked around upon the crowd 
assembled, coughed a little, wiped his 
nose, and then took from out his prayer- 
book a sheet of paper. 

This i.s to announce the intended mar- 
riage of “ He waited a moment, 

every one was on the qid vive, “ Between 
Monsieur Louis Norbert — Marquis de 
Champdoce, minor and legitimate son of 
Guillaume Cesar, and of his late wife, 
Isabella de Barneville, both residents of 
this parish — and Desiree- Anne-Marie Pa- 
louzat, minor and legitimate daughter of 
Bene Auguste Palouzat, Comte de Puy- 
mandour, and of the defunct Zoe Staplet. 
his wife, also of this parish.” 

This was the crash of thunder which 
came from the pulpit, and seemed to deaf- 
en Diane. Her heart ceased to beat. 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS, 


193 


“ Any one who may knoAV of any im- 
pediment to this marriage is now warned, 
under penalty of excommunication, to 
make us acquainted with it ; Avhile at this 
same time he is dul}?- warned, under the 
same penalty, to bring none in malice or 
without foundation.” 

‘"Impediment.” What frightful irony. 

Mademoiselle de Laurebourg knew more 
than one. 

A wild longing came to her to start up 
and shriek aloud before them all, then and 
there, th it this marriage could not take 
place ; that IS'orbert was her husband be- 
fore God ; that he was united to her by a 
tie stronger than all earthly ties — by that 
of crime. 

She made a prodigious effort and stood, 
white as snow, but with a smile on her 
lips; and seeing one of her friends — a 
young girl of her own age, she made her 
a little sign, which seemed to say : 

“ Who would haye thought of that? ” 

All her intelligence was concentrated on 
one point now — to wear a bold, unmoyed 
countenance. The voices of the choir 
rang in her ears ; the smell of the incense 
made her sick. It seeine l that she must 
faint if the services did not come to an 
end. 

At last the priest turned toward the 
congregation, and intoned the Ite missa 
est. Mademoiselle seized the arm of her 
maid and dragged her awaj^ in silence. 

As she entered the chateau a servant 
rushed to meet her with an agitated coun- 
tenance. 

•• Ah, mademoiselle! ” gasped the man, 
“ such a terrible misfortune. Your father 
and mother are waiting for you. It is ter- 
rible.” 

When she entered the room she saw her 
father and mother were sitting near each 
other, and weeping. She went to them, 
and the Marquis, drawing her to him, 
pressed her tenderly to his heart. ^ 

‘"Poor child!” he murmured; “poor, 
dear child ; we haye only you now.” ~ 

Their son was dead. An express had 
brought the sad news while she was at 
church. 

She was an only daughter and the sole 
heiress of more than sixty thousand liyres 
income, and had thus suddenly become 
one of the most brilliant heiresses in the 
province. 

If this catastrophe had come to pass 
only one week before, it would have in- 
sured her marriage to Norbert, and she 
would never have committed that fright- 
ful crime. It was something more than 
the grim sarcasm of destiny — it was a 
chastisement. She did not lavish one re- 
gret upon her brother. She could think 
of nothing but ^^orbert, and in her ears 
still rang that frightful announcement. 

Why this step — and this marriage so 
hastily decided upon? 

She scented a mystery and determined 


to discover it. What had taken place at 
Champdoce? Had the Due, contrary to 
Dauman's predictions, recovered? Had 
he discovered his son's attempt, and par- 
doned it only on the condition that he 
should now yield to his will? 

The day passed away in these futile 
conjectures and in trying to discover some 
means, whatsoever they rnig.it be, to pre- 
vent the consummation of this union, for 
she had not relinquished the struggle, and 
did not yet quite despair. Her new posi- 
tion was another weapon in her hands. 
She had a presentiment that she could 
triumph yet, provided she could see IS'or- 
bert for one minute even. Was she not 
sure of her empire over him? Had she 
not already — with one single look — in- 
duced him to break his firmest resolves? 

She must see Norbert, and instantly. 
The danger was urgent. Days were worth 
years. She determined that that very 
night she would go to Champdoce. 

A little after midnight, when she knew 
that every one in the chateau was asleep, 
she ci'v^pt down the grand staircase on tip- 
toe and passed out through a side door. 

How did she expect to reach Yorbert? 
She had arranged her plan. He had often 
described to her the interior of the Cha- 
teau de Champdoce, and she knew that his 
room was in the rez de chausse^ with two 
windows on the court-yard. Thi^ was all 
she needed. 

But when she reached the court-yard 
she hesitated. What if she should make 
a blunder in the window ! She said to her- 
self, however, that she was too far ad- 
vanced to recede, that if any one but 
Norbert should op m the window, that she 
would turn and fly. She shook a blind 
softly, at first, and then more roughly. 
Her memory had not deceived her. 

^^■orbert opened the window, and said : 

“ Who is it?” 

/ “ It is I, Norbert; it is I — Diane.” 

“ What do you want?” asked Norbert, 
wildly. “ What do you wish to do here?” 

She looked' at him; his face was almost 
that of a stranger, so greatly had he 
changed. She was frightened. 

“ Do you intend to marry Mademoiselle 
de Puymandour?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And yet you pretend to love me? ” 

“Yes, I have loved you devotedly — 
madly, with a love that drove me to the 
commission of a crime. But you-— you 
cared only for a princely fortune ! ” 

Diane raised her arms with a despairing 
gesture. 

“Should I be here at this hour if thi^ 
were true? My brother ife dead, and I am 
as rich as you, Norbert. and I am here. 
A^ou accuse me of mercenary c dculations ; 
and why? I suppose because I refused to 
flee with you from my father’s roof. Oh, 
my friend, it was our future happiness 
that I defended ; it was ^ — ” 


194 


THE SLAVES OF PALIS, 


She stopped, breathless, and her eyes 
dilated with horror. 

The door had opened and the Due de 
Champdoce appeared, babbling incoher- 
ently, and laughing with that meaningless 
laughter peculiar to idiots. 

“* Do you understand now,'’ said Nor- 
bert, vvhy the remembrance of our love 
has become intolerable to me? Do you 
dare talk to me of happiness, when this 
ghost of my father will rise between us ? ” 
And Norbert pointed to the window. 

She turned, but before passing through 
she looked at him in a transport of rage 
and jealousy. She could not forgive Nor- 
bert for this crime which she herself had 
committed — for this crime which had 
blighted all her hopes. Her adieu was a 
threat. 

‘‘ I shall avenge myself, Norbert,” she 
cried, and that before long ! ” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Only three days — busy days, it is true 
— had been needed to complete the prelim- 
inaries of the marriage of Xorbert and 
Mademoiselle de Puymandour. 

One Saturday evening the two young 
people were presented to each other. 
They were mutually displeased. At the 
very first glance each felt that instinctive 
repugnance which years never conquer 
sometimes. 

While still under the influence of her 
father’s determined will, Marie thought of 
confiding to Xorbert the secret of her 
heart. She had the idea that were she to 
tell him that she loved another, he might 
consent to take her at her word. 

Several times when she could have spok- 
en she" was silent from fear, and allowed 
the only possible chance of retreat to es- 
cape from her. 

For Xoroert, at the very first word, 
would have withdrawn, happy to grasp at 
this pretext, which was so good a one 
withal, for not keeping an engagement 
made to himself to obey his father hence- 
forward in all things, now, alas ! that his 
father could no longer command. He was 
regularly admitted now each day, when 
he arrived at the Puymandour chateau, 
with an enormous bouquet. 

He was shown to the salon, where he 
j^resented the flowers to Marie with a com- 
pliment. while she accepted both bouquet 
and compliment with a burning blush. 

Then the two seated themselves and 
conversed, an aged female relative play- 
ing propriety at these interviews. 

For several hours they sat thus; she 
leaning over her embroidery-frame, he 
not knowing what to say, and consequent- 
ly rarely saying anything, in spite of 
Marie’s ineffectual struggles to keep up a 
commonplace conversation. 

They were much better pleased when 


Monsieur de Puymandour would propose 
that they should join him in a little walk. 
But this was a rare occurrence, as Monsieur 
de Puymandour professed not to have a 
moment to himself. 

Xever, indeed, had he seemed so bustling, 
so gay and cheerful, as since this marriage 
had given food for gossip. He had the 
preparations for. the marriage to superin- 
tend, for he determined that everything 
should be very magnificent. 

The chateau was furnished anew. The 
carriages were all done up and painted, 
v/ith the Champdoce arms added to the 
Puymandour’s. 

These arms were everywhere — over all 
the doors, carved on all the furniture, en- 
graved on the silver. Monsieur de Puy- 
mandour would have consented even to 
their being burnt into his breast. 

Amid tliis incessant tumult and excite- 
ment, Marie and Xorbert both grew sadder 
and more hopeless day by day. 

One day he came in from visiting with 
such an astonishing piece of intelligence 
that he hurried to the salon where he 
knew, at that hour, he should find his 
lovers, as he called them. 

Well, well, children ! ” he exclaimed, 
‘‘your example is so good that all* the 
world seems inclined to follow it, and the 
Mayor and the Cure will be kept pretty 
busy this year. 

Mademoiselle Marie tried to look inter- 
ested. 

‘* Yes,” continued her father, “ I have 
just heard of a marriage which will follow 
yours almost immediately, and will make 
some commotion also. 

And whose is that? ” 

“You know, I suppose,” he said, addres- 
sing Xorbert, “ the son of Comte de Mus- 
sidan? ” 

“ Vicomte Octave do you mean?” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ He lives* ill Paris, I believe.” 

“Yes, he lives there; but he is here 
now with his father, and has already lost 
his heart in this one week — and to whom, 
think you? Guess.” 

“ It is quite impossible, dear father; and 
we are dying of curiosity.” 

“ It seems that the Vicomte Octave de 
Mussidan is about to marry Mademoiselle 
de Laurebourg.” 

“I do not think it possible,” Marie 
said. “ Why, it is not two weeks since 
she lost her brother.” 

Xorbert turned scarlet and then abso- 
lutely livid. So great was his agitation 
that he nearly dropped the album he held. 

Monsieur de Puymandour went on : 

“ I approve of the Vicomte de Mussidan,” 
he said, ‘ ‘ while mademoiselle, in addition 
to her beauty, which is really remarkable, 
appears to me to be in every respect a most 
accomplished person. She has a most dis- 
tinguished air. As to her mind I have rea- 
son to think her wonderfully clever.” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


195 


He turned toward his daughter, and said : 

‘‘N'ow there is a model, Marie, which I 
should like you to copy — which it would 
be well for you to imitate — as you are so 
soon to become a Duchess. ’* 

IVhen he was started on this chapter. 
Monsieur de Puymandour was not easily 
stopped, therefore she waited calmly until 
he took a long breath, and then left the 
room with a murmured apology of an 
order to give. 

The count was not much disturbed by 
her defection, as Norbert was left to him. 

‘‘ To come back to Mademoiselle Diane,” 
he said. Black is wonderfully becoming 
to her — actually, the death of a relative 
should be looked upon by a blonde as a 
piece of rare good luck. But I beg your 
pardon for singing her praises to you who 
know her so much better than does any 
one else.” 

” I, sir?” 

“ Yes, sir, you. I do not suppose you 
intend to deny the soft impeachment, do 
you? ” 

‘‘ I do not understand ” 

Well, I do, then. I understand that — 
that ' you have been making love to her, 
and that quite lately, my boy ! Bless my 
soul ! how you blush ! What’s in the wind 
now?” 

I assure you, sir ” 

De Puymandour laughed aloud. 

‘‘ I have heard a good deal of your little 
walks and talks, and all that sort of thing.” 

In vain did Norbert protest and deny. 
His words made not the smallest impres- 
sion on his auditor. 

Norbert was so annoyed at all this that 
he could not remain to dinner, as the count 
urged, alleging that he must see his father. 

He got back to Champdoce as soon as 
possible. He was much agitated by con- 
fused and contradictory statements, and 
as he hurried along he heard his name 
called by some one, who was running to 
overtake him. 

“ Marquis ! Marquis ! ” this person called. 

Norbert turned, and found himself face 
to face with Montlouis, the farmer’s son, 
of whom at Poitiers he had made a friend 
and confidant. 

“ I have been here a week,” said Mont- 
louis ; I came here with my patron — for 
I have a patron now. The Count de Mus- 
sidan has attached me to his house as his 
private secretary. Monsieur Octave is not 
the pleasantest man in the world to live 
with : he fiies into terrible passions. But 
after all, he is at heart the best of men. 
I am delighted with my position.” 

“ I am very glad to hear it, my friend — 
Vtery glad.” 

‘‘ And you. Marquis, I hear, are to marry 
Mademoiselle de Puymandour. When I 
heard it I could not believe my ears.” 

“ And why, pray? ” 

Why? because I remembered the time 
when we used to wait at the gate of a cer- 


tain garden until we saw a certain gate 
open mysteriously.” 

But you must forget all that, Mont- 
louis.” 

‘‘Oh! sir, my lips are sealed except to 
you ; no one else could ever extort a word 
from me. 

“ Stop ! ” cried Norbert with a threaten- 
ing gesture ; “ do you dare tp say ” 

“ Say what, sir? ” 

‘‘ I wish you to understand that made- 
moiselle is as pure to-day as she was when 
I saw her first. She has been foolish, un- 
questionably, but guilty — no I I swear it 
before God I ” 

‘‘ And I believe you, sir; I believe you.” 

Tho fact is that he did not believe one 
word that Norbert said, and it was easy to 
read that in his face. 

“ And all the more, too,” he continued, 
“as the young lady is to marry my pat- 
ron.” 

“ But,” asked Korbert, where did the 
Vicomte see Mademoiselle Diane — where 
and how?” 

“ At Paris Monsieur Octave was very 
intimate with her brother, and visited him 
constantly during his illness. Conse- 
quently, as soon as the poor sorrow- 
stricken parents heard of his being in the 
neighborhood, they sent for him to come 
and see them. And of course he went at 
once. Naturally, too, he saw Mademoi- 
selle Diane, and he came back in a state of 
enthusiasm.” 

Norbert’s irritation was so evident that 
Montlouis checked himself, convinced that 
the Marquis was in love with Diane still, 
and jealous. 

“ After all,” continued the secretary, in a 
consolatory voice, ‘"nothing is yet settled.” 

But Norbert was too much disturbed to 
endure the chatter of Montlouis any lon- 
ger. He pressed his hand and left him 
abruptly walking off at a great pace, leav- 
ing the secretary dumb with astonishment. 

It seemed to Norbert that he wa ? en- 
closed in a bronze sphere, which slowly 
but surely contracted, and that, after a 
time, he should be ground to powder. 

He saw Mademoiselle de Laurebourg 
marrying Vicomte Octave de Mussidan, 
in whose service Montlouis would be re- 
tained. What would be her feelings when 
she found herself constrained to live in 
the continual presence of this confidant of 
her former love of the young man, who 
had over and over again, when Norbei D 
had been unable to get away from Champ- 
doce, been entrusted with a letter or mes- 
sage to her? 

And Montlouis — how would he behave? 
Would he have the sang froid and tact 
required in so delicate a position ? 

What would be the result of this con- 
junction which appeared to be tho cruel 
wrong of Fate? Probably the lady would 
not long submit to this. She would not 
be able to endure the odious presence of 


196 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


this accomplice of her girlish error. She 
would quickly find some pretext for his 
dismissal. He, in his turn, would under- 
stand this, and in his indignation at losing 
a position which gratified him and also 
furnished his means of livelihood, would 
expose her. 

If Montlouis opened his lips. Monsieur 
de Mussidan, justly indignant at the de- 
ception practiced on him, would part from 
his wife. 

What then would Diane do when she 
saw herself irretrievably lost, and under 
the ban of that world where she had as- 
pired to reign? Would she not, in her 
turn, seek to avenge herself on ISTorberfc? 

He had just asked himself the bitter 
question if Death would not come to him 
now in the guise of a blessing, when he 
suddenly beheld Francoise — the daughter 
of Mother Eouleau — before him. 

She liad been waiting for him for two 
hours, hidden behind a hedge. 

I have something here for you, sir," 
she said. 

He took the letter she extended, and 
opening it, he read : — 

‘‘You said that I did not love you — you 
wish me to prove my love, possibly. Very 
well, let us elope to-night. I shall be 
sacrificed — but to you, by you, and for 
you! Refiect, JSTorbert. There is time 
still; to-morrow it will be too late.” 

And Mademoiselle de Laurebourg dared 
to write these words. 

He stood with his eyes long riveted on 
this letter, which to him was thrillingly 
eloquent. Then did it not tell him some- 
thing of the thoughts of her who penned 
it? The generally firm, neat writing of 
Mademoiselle Diane, trembling and con- 
fused. The three last words were nearly 
illegible. In many places the writing was 
blurred and the paper was blistered — was 
it with tears ? 

But the writing was intentionally irreg- 
ular, and drops of water sometimes do 
duty for tears. 

“ Does she love me?” he murmured. 

He hesitated ; yes, he hesitated, touched 
by this idea that she would sacrifice for 
him honor, family and fortune; that she 
was his if he raised his finger — that in 
two hours he, seated by her side in a car- 
riage, might be driving at full speed to- 
ward some foreign land. His heart beat 
madly, and he gasped for breath, when 
suddenly, fifty feet down the road, he 
caught a glimpse of a man's figure. It 
was his father. This was the second time 
that by his simple presence the Due had 
triumphed over Diane and her most pow- 
erful attractions and fascinations. 

“Never!'’ cried Norbert, with such 
energy that Francoise fell back in terror. 
“Never! never!” 

And crushing her letter mth uncon- 
scious violence, he threw it down on the 


ground, where Francoise discovered it a 
moment later, and rushed forward to meet 
his father. 

The Due, then, had recovered from his 
attack? Recovered — yes, in one sense. 
In the sense that his life was saved — that 
he arose, walked, eat and slept as of yore. 

He went to look at the laborers in the 
field, and thence to the stables; but he 
had no recollection of what he saw nor 
even consciousness of it. 

The state of the Due’s health had 
created many difficulties, which would 
‘have seriously embarrassed Norbert but 
for the aid of the shrewd intelligence of 
Monsieur de Puymandour, who had ac- 
complished wonders. 

But these matters necessarily retarded 
the marriage. It came at last, however. 
Early in the morning Norbert had been 
taken possession of by his prospective 
father-in-law, and after a wakeful and 
horrible night, had not been allowed one 
moment for refiection. 

At eleven o’clock he entered his carriage 
and was driven, first to the mayor's, and 
then to the church. At twelve o’clock all 
was accomplished, and he was bound for 
life. 

A little before dinner, the Yicomte 
de Mussidan appeared, and after ofl’ering 
his congratulations, bespoke them for him- 
self, by announcing officially his ap- 
proaching marriage to Mademoiselle de 
Laurebourg. 

Five days later the newly married pair 
were installed at Champdoce. Established 
with a wife whom he could not love, 
and whose sadness was a perpetual re- 
proach to him, and with a father who had 
lost his mind, Norbert at tim;‘S felt tempted 
to suicide. One morning the servant came 
to say that his father refused to rise ; they 
sent for the physician, who seemed to 
consider the Due’s life in danger. 

A certain reaction had taken place, and 
all day long the invalid seemed to be in 
great excitement. His powers of speech, 
which had been much impaired, seemed 
suddenly restored to him. And, at last, 
he became delirious, which induced Nor- 
bert and Jean to send all the servants 
away at once, lest, in some incoherent 
phrase, should occur the words parricide 
or poison. 

About eleven o’clock he became calmer, 
and finally seemed to be drowsy, when all 
at once he started up. “ Come here ! ” he 
cried. Norbert and Jean ran instantly to 
the bed, and were much startled. The Due 
had entirely regained his old expression ; 
his eyes fiashed and his lips trembled as in 
moments of great excitement. 

'•Pardon me. father!” cried Norbert, 
sinking on his knees. “ Pardon me ! ” 

Monsieur de Champdoce gently extended 
his hand. 

‘* My pride was unreasonable and God 
punished me. My son, I forgive you.” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


197 


The young man sobbed aloud. 

I renounce my projects, my son. I do 
Inot desire you to marry Mademoiselle de 
PuymandOLir if you do not love her.’’ 

I have obeyed you, my father,” Nor- 
bert answered. She is my wife already J’ 
The countenance of Monsieur de Champ- 
doce expressed the most frightful anguish ; 
he raised his arms as if to drive away a 
phantom, and, in a hoarse voice, he cried: 

Too late ! Too late ! ” 

He fell back on his pillows in convul- 
sions. He was dead ! 

If it be true, as is asserted, that for the 
dying the veil of the future is sometimes 
torn away, then the Due de Champdoce 
saw 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Repulsed by Norbert. Diane, with 
death in her soul, turned toward the cha- 
teau de Laurebourg, going again over that 
road which she first traversed palpitating 
with hope. 

The appearance of the Due de Champ- 
doce had terrified her. 

But her imagination was not of that 
kind which remains long impressed. 
When she regained her room, when she 
had thrown aside her clothing, and des- 
troyed every indication of mud and her 
midnight adventure, she became herself 
once more, and even smiled at her past 
terrors. Overwhelmed with shame, she 
had threatened Norbert; but now calm, 
she felt that it was not he whom she hated 
— that all her hatred was for that woman, 
that rival — that Marie de Puymandour, 
who had been her evil genius. 

A secret presentiment warned Made- 
moiselle Diane that it was there that she 
must look for reasons which might suffice 
to break off this marriage, whose banns 
were already published. But before she 
could indulge the smallest hope of suc- 
cess, it was necessary the past of Marie de 
Puymandour should be ascertained. 

Such was the state of things with Diane 
when the Vicomte de Mussidan was pre- 
sented to her — the friend of that brother 
whose death had made her so rich. 

Tall, well made, and with finely cut and 
superbly handsome features, and endowed 
with enormous physical strength and 
health, he had, in addition, the advantage 
of a fine name, and considerable fortune. 

Two women, the incarnation of grace 
and wit — his mother and his aunt — were 
entrusted with his social education. Sent 
to Paris at twenty, with an allowance 
which was sufficient for him to make a 
good figure there, he found himself sud- 
denly, thanks , to his family connections, 
thrown into the centre of the fashionable 
world. 

At the first sight of Madepioiselle de 
Laurebourg he felt that thunder-clap 


which is the presage of a love that makes 
happiness or the despair of an entire life. 

Mademoiselle had never before b?en so 
stran.^ely — bewilderingly seductive as at 
this time. 

Octave de Mussidan did not please her, 
he was too little like Norbert. 

Nothing, either, would ever efface from 
her memory the recollection of Norbert, 
as he appeared before her, for the first 
time, in the Bois de Bevron, with his game 
in his hand, and in his rustic garments. 
She delighted in dwelling upon this recol- 
lection, and on the thought of his shyness 
and diffidence — when he hardly dare* turn 
to lift his eyes to hers. 

But Octave was taken off his feet, and 
allowed himself to be swept away by this 
new and delicious emotion, which on each 
visit to Laurebourg, became more and 
more overwhelming. 

But like the chivalric lover, who claims 
that a woman should have the free dispo- 
sition of her person, he addressed himself 
first to Diane. And succeeding, finally, 
in finding himself for a moment alone with 
her, he asked if she would allow him to 
ask of the Marquis de Laurebourg the 
honor of her hand. 

This surprised her excessively, for she 
had been so absorbed in her own affairs 
that she had not even suspected his feel- 
ings. 

She was terrified withal, like the patient 
who hears from a surgeon that a frightful 
operation has become necessary, for it 
was in this same way that Octave com- 
pelled her to look the truth in the face. 

She hesitated when she heard this ques- 
tion, and, finally, with a strange look, 
said that she would give him a decided an- 
swer the next day. 

The result of these meditations was the 
letter which she entrusted to the daughter 
of Mother Rouleau. 

The criminal who breathlessly aw^aits 
the decision of the judges, alone can 
understand the torture endured by Made- 
moiselle Diane, while she watched at the 
end of the park at Laurebourg for the 
return of her messenger. This suspense 
came to an end only after three or four 
hours, when Francoise appeared all out of 
breath. 

What did he say ? ” asked Diane. 

‘‘Nothing; that is, he cried out loud 
with furious gestures : ‘ Never ! no, 

never ! ’ ” 

As it wa s necessary that this girl’s sus- 
picions should not be aroused, Mademoi- 
selle Diane had strength to laugh aloud, 
as she said : 

“ That is just what I thought ! ” 

Francoise seemed inclined to say some- 
thing more, but Diane hastily dismissed 
her With the present of a louis. 

No more uncertainties, doubts, and an- 
guish. No more struggles — and no other 
hope than that of vengeance. 


198 


THE SLA VES OF PABIS, 


She was thankful now for Octave’s love. 
She said to herself that, once married, she 
should be free, and that she could follow 
Norbert and his wife to Paris. 

When she returned to the chateau Oc- 
tave was there. He questioned her with 
his eyes, and with a slight grave bow she 
gave her assent. 

This consent, she thought, would set 
her free from the past. But she was 
mistaken. 

She did not take into consideration all 
the imprudences she had committed, nor 
her accomplices, nor Dauman. 

On learning that their brutal crime had 
“ missed its mark,” the valiant President 
had been overwhelmed by one of those 
spasms of terror Avhich sometimes kill 
people. 

The intelligence communicated by Mon- 
sieur de Puymandour tranquilized him to 
some extent. He was not, however, en- 
tirely reassured until he ascertained that 
the Due had absolutely lost his reason, 
and that the physician, regarding the case 
as hopeless, had ceased his visits at 
Chainpdoce. 

When he heard, in succession, of the 
two events — Xorbert’s marriage and the 
death of the Due — he could no longer see 
any shadow on his horizon. All danger 
was over, and he recalled the important 
fact that he had in his drawer twenty 
thousand francs’ worth of notes signed by 
Norbert, which were worth their full 
amount now that the young man reigned 
at Champdoce. 

One 6f the lirst steps he took was to 
wander in the environs of Laurebourg as 
soon as he was able. He said to himself 
that the very devil would be in it, if 
chance did not furnish him with an oppor- 
tunity for a little con vers ition with Made- 
moiselle Diane. 

Dauman had made this attempt for sev- 
eral days in succession, when one day he 
was delighted to see this young lady walk- 
ing alone in the direction of Bevron. 

He followed without her suspecting it 
as long as the way was open to observa- 
tion, but when she readied a small grove 
he suddenly appeared before her. 

“What do you want? ” she said, quickly. 

He did not answer at once, but after 
apologizing for his audacity, he began to 
congratulate Diane on her marriage, of 
which alt the world were now talking, 
and which he said delighted him, espec- 
ially as he knew Monsieur de Mussidan to 
be far superior to 

“Is that all you have to say!” she 
asked, and as she turned away he had the 
impudence to restrain her by the corner of 
her shawl. 

“ I have something more,” he replied, 
“if you will listen: something about — 
you know what.” 

“About whom?” she asked, mth no 
effort to conceal her utter contempt. 


He smiled, looked around to see that no 
one was near, and then leaning toward 
Diane, murmured : 

“ It is about the poison.” 

She started back as if a serpent had 
reared its head in her path. 

“What do you mean? What do you 
dare to say?” 

But he had resumed his obsequious air, 
and relapsed into complaints and recrimi- 
nations! What an abominable trick she 
had played him ! She had stolen his vial 
of black glass. If the truth had been dis- 
covered, he would have paid with his head 
for a crime of which he was innocent. 
He had reallv been made ill by this sus- 
pense, and up to the present time he could 
not sleep at night, and he was hunted by 
remorse. 

“ That is enough! ” said Diane, stamp- 
ing her foot ; “ that is enough ! ” 

“ Ah, well, mademoiselle, I cannot stay 
here now; I am too uneasy; I wish to 
leave for some foreign land.” 

“ Tell me what all this preamide means.” 

He wished something to console him 
in his exile — a souvenir — a little help. 
In fact, he asked only a sum wliich would 
bring him in a yearly income of three 
thousan 1 francs. 

“I understand,” she interrupted, “you 
wish to make me pay for what you call 
your devotion.” 

“ Mademoiselle ” 

“ And you estimate it at sixty thousand 
francs. That is a little dear, I think.” 

“ Alas ! that is not half what this miser- 
able affair has cost me.” 

“Nonsense! 1 know what to think of 
your demand.” 

“ Demand ! ” he cried. “ I come to you 
humbly, hat in hand, asking alms. If I 
demanded them it would be in a very dif- 
ferent way that I should approach you. I 
should say : ‘ I want such and such a sum, 
or I shall speak.’ What have I to lose af- 
ter all, if all were told. Almost nothing. 
I am a poor man and I am old. Monsieur 
Norbert and you, mademoiselle, are the 
ones who are in danger. You are young, 
rich, and noble, and the future is full of 
happiness for you.” 

Mademoiselle Diane reflected for a mo- 
ment. 

“ You are talking,” she said, “ in a very 
foolish way. When certain charges are 
made against certain people there must be 
proofs.” 

“ That is true, mademoiselle, but how do 
you know that I have not these proofs? 
But if you prefer to purchase them of 
course you have the best right as well as 
the first choice, and yet you complain.” 

As he spoke he drew from his pocket a 
greasy portfolio, and took from it a paper 
which had been much crushed and tum- 
bled, but had since been carefully 
smoothed. 

Mademoiselle Diane stifled an exclama-. 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


199 


tion of rage and fear. She had recognized 
her last note to Norbert. 

‘‘Ah!” she cried, “Francoise has be- 
trayed me — probably because I saved her 
mother from starvation.” 

The President extended the letter to her 
— she thought he did not distrust her. 
With a gesture as rapid as thought, she 
tried to snatch it from him. 

But he was on his guard. He drew back 
with an ironical gesture. 

“Oh, no, if you please, this letter is not 
the little vial again ; but 1 will give it to 
you, with another I have, when you give 
me what I want. But nothing for nothing ! 
And if I am arrested I prefer to be in good 
company when I stand in the dock.” 

Mademoiselle de Laurebourg was in des- 
pair. 

“ But I have no money,” she cried. “ A 
young girl has no money ! ” 

“ But Monsieur Norbert has.” 

“ Go to him, then.” 

Dauman shook his head. 

“ No,” he replied, “ I am not quite such 
a simpleton. 1 know Monsieur Norbert; 
he is his father over again. But you, 
mademoiselle, can manage him. Besides, 
you are even more interested than he is.” 

“ President ! ” 

“Oh, you will find that there is some- 
thing more than the ‘ President’ concerned. 
I came to you humbly enough, and you 
treated me like the dirt under your feet. 
And I will not bear such things, as you 
will find. I never poisoned any one ! But 
enough of this recrimination. This is 
Tuesday. If Friday, before six o’clock, 1 
do not receive what I want, your father 
and Monsieur de Mussidan will hear from 
me. And perhaps you won’t be married 
after all ! ” 

Mademoiselle de Laurebourg was abso- 
lutely petrified at so much impudence, and 
Dauman had disappeared at the turning of 
the road before she had succeeded in find- 
ing a response with which to wither him. 

She understood perfectly that he was 
the man to execute his threats, even if in 
doing so he seriously compromised himself, 
and gained no advantage whatever. 

Strong natures at once look round to see 
what they can do, and this was what Diane 
did ; but she had little choice in her deci- 
sion. To address herself to Norbert was 
her only resource. She of course knew 
that he would do all in his power to avert 
a peril which menaced her as much as him- 
self ; but the idea of turning to him for 
wealth was odious to her pride. 

To what abject depths, she, a Laurebourg, 
had descended ; and this was the end of 
her dreams of ambition and grandeur. 
Sh? was at the merc}^ of the vilest of 
human beings — of a Dauman. She was 
now compelled to crawl to the knees of a 
man whom she had loved too much not to 
hate mortally. 

Nevertheless she did not hesitate. 


Instead, therefore, of continuing on the 
road, she went directly to the Widow Rou- 
leau’s, and sent Francoise to find Norbert. 
She bade the girl say t hat he must go the 
next night to the small park-gate at Laure- 
bourg, where she would be waiting for 
him ; that she must see him on a matter of 
life and death. ‘ 

The woman’s face, her heightened color, 
and her evident emotion, enlightened her 
benefactress fully as to her treachery. 

But Mademoiselle Diane spoke to her 
with her accustomed kindness. Certain as 
she was of the complicity of Francoise and 
Dauman, she judged it best to dissimulate 
and to make use of her again. 

She was smiling and sweet as ever, gay 
even, and yet was in intolerable torture ; 
and as the hour drew near that she had 
fixed, her heart beat as if it would burst, 
and the most terrible doubts assailed her. 

Would Norbert come to the rendezvous? 
Had Francoise seen her ? Suppose he were 
away from home ! 

It was growing dark ; the servants came 
into the salon with lamps. 

Mademoiselle Diane slipped away, and 
reached the same gate in breathless haste. 

Norbert was there, and as soon as she 
appeared rushed to meet her ; but suddenly 
he seemed struck by a sudden thought, 
and stood nailed to the ground. 

“ You sent for me, mademoiselle?” he 
said. 

“Yes, Due ” 

At this title, dropping without thought 
from her lips, both started. This title 
Norbert owed to his father’s death, and 
the death to Mademoiselle Diane’s wish to 
be Duchess 

She recovered her self-possession first, 
and at once feeling the need of haste and 
decision, she began with extreme volubility 
to explain Dauman’s insulting demand, 
exaggerating — although there was little 
need of doing so — all his threats. 

She supposed that this last rascality of 
the President’s would transport Norbert 
with rage; but he, to her infinite surprise, 
had suffered so intensely that he had 
reached that point when he seemed to liim- 
self insensible and invulnerable. 

“ Do not be troubled,” he said listlessly ; 
“ I will see Dauman.” 

“And you can leave me thus,” she said, 
sadly, “without a word?” 

“What can I say. Mademoiselle? Mj’' 
dying father forgave me — I forgive you. 
Adieu.” 

“ Adieu, then. Norbert, we shall see no 
more of each ocher. I am about to be 
married as you have probably heard. Can 
I resist the will of my parents? Besides, 
what does it matter ! Farewell. Remem- 
ber that there is no one in the world who 
hopes so earnestly for your happiness.” 

“ Happiness ! ” cried Norbert. “I happy? 
Impossible! Can you be happy again? 
If you can, teach me your secret, teU me 


200 . 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS, 


how to forget, and how to annihilate 
thought. You do not know, possibly, that 
at your side I built a plan of a perfect life 
— I dreamed dreams, and the dreams and 
the plan are all alike odious to me ; and 
their very recollections will be my despair 
and my terror ; and these recollections, I 
know. I can nfever efface from my heart 
w^ere I to live a thousand years. You do 
not know.” 

A wild joj^ — the joy of triumph — filled 
the eyes of Diane at this interview, but it 
faded quickly, and left her cold and inani- 
mate as marble. When she reappeared in 
the salon it was Avith so relieved an ex- 
pression that the Vicomte Octave noticed 
it and asked the cause. 

She answered by a jest — but it was a 
gracious one — with a dash of tenderness, 
for to her future husband shcAvas disposed 
to show only the most amiable side of her 
character. 

She Avas thinking at the same moment, 
Avill Norbert see Dauman in time. 

He saAV him. The next day the faithful 
servant Jean handed her quite a volumi- 
nous package. 

She opened it and found that it con- 
tained, beside the tAVO letters of which the 
President had spoken, all her correspond- 
ence Avith IN'orbert — more than a hundred 
letters in all — lengthy and compromising 
to a degree. 

Her first idea Avas to burn them all ; but 
she reflected, and hid the packet, finally, 
Avith the letters which IS'orbert had Avrit- 
ten to her. 

Yorbert had paid Dauman sixty thou- 
sand francs, and OAved him beside, twenty 
thousand more. 

This sum. in addition to his OAvn savings, 
Avould give the President a fortune so com- 
fortable that he cOuld leave Bevron and 
establish himself in Paris, Avhere he could 
find a stage more suitable for his talents. 

That Avas wh)^, eight days later, the vil- 
lage Avas throAvn into a state of wild con- 
fusion by the discovery that Dauman had 
locked up his house and departed in the 
society of Francoise. 

Two tearful women went about from 
house to house, telling this incredible 
news and uttering many threats. 

In the first place, the Widow Pouleau 
accused Mademoiselle de Laurebourg out 
and out of having aided in a step Avhich 
took the bread from her mouth in her de- 
clining years. 

Then the old creature who was the 
President’s housekeeper, seeing herself 
throAvn on the Avorld, did not hesitate to 
say that all Dauman’s legal knoAvledge 
had been acquired in a prison, Avhere he 
had been, she said, for ten years. 

This unexpected departure of the Presi- 
dent and Francoise enchanted Mademoi- 
selle de Laurebourg. for her relief w^as 
great to be disembarrassed from the per- 
petual .risk of finding herself, at the most 


inopportune moments, face to face Avith 
one of her accomplices. 

In addition, Yorbert Avas going to Paris 
with his Avife, and Monsieur de Puyman- 
dour was ‘sajdng every Avhere that his 
daughter, the Duchesse de Champdoce, 
Avould not be in the neighborhood again 
very soon. 

Diane, therefore, dreAV a long breath, 
and as she watched the horizon it seemed 
to her that all threatening clouds Avere 
dissipated. The future Avas her o^vn, at 
least, and she could go on Avith the prepa- 
rations for her marriage, which Avas to 
take place in a fortnight; and already one 
of Octave's friends, who w^as to be 
groomsman, had answered. 

But Diane took little notice of this new- 
comer. She had measured the love Avhich 
Octave laAushed upon h^r, and turned all 
her energies to augmenting it still more. 

To do this at once was also good prac- 
tice for her, and by her success noAv she 
might be able to judge of the empire she 
might establish when she Avas a Avoman of 
fas lion in the capital. 

Octave Avas subjugated as any other man 
would have been in similar circumstances. 

On the day of her marriage she was 
radiant. But this great contentment was 
an affectation and a bravado. She knew 
that every eye Avas upon her as she came 
out of the church, and the crowd divided 
to let her pass. She saw many a malevo- 
lent glance. 

A more direct misfortune awaited her at 
the Chateau de Mussidan, AA'here she drove 
at once. 

There she saAv Monti ouis, and great as 
was her courage and audacity, she colored 
to the roots of her hair when he was pre- 
sented to her. 

He, fortTinately, having foreseen this 
moment, had had time to prepare for it, 
and looked perfectly impassive'. But re- 
spectful as Avas his obeisance, Diane — now 
Madame de Mussidan — detected, or 
thought she detected in his eyes, that ex- 
pression of ironical contempt and menace 
which she had so often seen in Dauman’s. 

“That man cannot stay here,” she 
thought. “He shall not stay here,” she 
added. 

To ask Octave to send Montlouis awaj^ 
Avas a simple and prompt thing to do ; but 
it was also a dangerous step to take. The 
wisest course was to defer the secretary’s 
dismissal until some good pretext offered 
itself. Yor Avas this occasion long in 
coming, since Octave Avas by no means 
pleased with his secretary. Montlouis, 
Aviio Avas full of zeal in Paris, had relaxed 
wonderfully when he Avas in Mussidan. 
He had renewed his relations Avith the 
young girl whom he had loved before 
going to Paris. This sort of thing could 
not, of course, go on. It was not. hoAV- 
ever. on that side that the first blow which 
should strike at the happiness of the 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


201 


young bride should come. Here she was 
on her guard, but she dreaded most that 
which no mortal eye could forsee — the 
strange developments of chance and 
accident. 

She had been married about two weeks, 
when one afternoon Octave proposed a 
little walk. She threw a shawl over her 
shoulders, and they started off gay as 
school children at home on a vacation. 

They loitered down the path leading 
through the wood, when all at once they 
heard a dog barking in the underbrush. It 
was Bruno. The dog stood on his hind 
legs, and placing his paws on her breast, 
tried to lick her face. 

‘‘ Help me, Octave ! she gasped. 

Her husband drove the dog away. 

‘‘Are you much frightened, dearest?” 
he asked. 

*‘Yes,” she answered, faintly; “I am 
sick with terror.” 

She shuddered at this recognition — 
shuddered at the thought that it might 
awaken the surprise of Monsieur de Mus- 
sidan. 

“ This creature would do you no harm, 
I am sure,” said Octave. 

“ No matter. Pray drive him away.” 

And as she spoke, she herself lifted her 
parasol ; but the dog, never supposing it 
to be a threat, fancied that his friend 
wished to play with him as formerly, and 
at once began to leap around her with 
little shrill barks, as if trying to induce 
her to follow him. 

“ But this dog knows you, Diane,” re- 
marked the Vicomte. 

“ Knows me ! ” 

Bruno licked her hand. 

“ His memory is better than mine ; but I 
do not feel quite comfortable. Come Oc- 
tave, let us go.” 

They turni'd tiieir steps homeward, and 
Octave would have forgotten the occur- 
rence if Bruno, delighted at having met 
an acquaintance, had not obstinately at- 
tached himself to their steps. 

“ It is singular,” repeated Octave; ‘‘very 
singular.” 

“ Look here, my man ! ” he cried, seeing 
a peasant at work in a field, “do you 
know this dog?"' 

“ Oh, yes sir.” 

“ And to whom does he belong? ” 

“To our master, sir; to Monsieur Nor- 
bert de Oharnpdoce.” 

“To be sure!” she exclaimed: “I re- 
member. I have* often seen this dog at 
Mother Rouleau’s, and I have given him 
bread sometimes. He was always with 
that girl — th it Francoise, who ran away 
with that man. Oh, yes, I know him now ; 
his name is Bruno. Here, Bruno, here ! ” 

The dog rushed to her, and she caressed 
him, hoping in that way to conceal her 
iface. 

Octave took his wife’s hand and drew it 
(through his arm without speaking. Vague 


doubts were stirred within him. Madame 
Diane was also very much disturbed. She 
cursed herself for having been so foolish 
— so cowardly. Whj’’ had she not at once 
recognized the dog? How preposterous 
was her final statement ! Had she said at 
once, “ It is Bruno — the Due’s dog ” — her 
husband would have attached no impor- 
ance whatever to it; but her own folly 
had transformed this simple incident into 
a great event. 

Her husband's preoccupation had been 
very marked ever since that fatal prome- 
na{]e. She had caught a look of suspicion 
in his eyes. How should she make him 
forget this unfortunate occurrence? She 
saw herself for the rest of her life con- 
demned to act a part whenever she saw a 
dog — it was necessary that she should 
always stand in deadly fear of them. 
Whenever she saw one she uttered a little 
shriek; she insisted on all of Octave’s 
being chained. When this was done it 
was nothing. The very earth scorched 
her feet; and she lived in a perpetual 
dread of an explosion — in an atmosphere 
which a solitary spark would inflame. 

From this time the lady of Mussidan 
had but one idea — to go away — to leave 
Bevron — to fly — no matter where ! 

It had originally been arranged that on 
leaving the church the newly married pair 
should take a post-chaise, which should 
carry them to some blessed country, some 
haven of rest. But events settled them- 
selves ditferently, aod from week to week 
they lingered at Mussidan. All she could 
dare to attempt was to imbue Octave with 
her desire, and keep before his mind this 
perpetual question of departure, without 
making a direct attack. 

It is certain that Octave supposed that 
he thought all this himself — that it was 
the outgrowth of his own mind — and that 
he would have departed at once, had it 
depended on himself. 

‘•Be patient,” his young wife would 
whisper. 

“ It seems to me,” Octave would answer, 
“ that your father and mine will never get 
through with all their business arrange- 
ments.” 

The catastrophe arrived. 

It was the last of October — the 26th, 
on a Thursday, about four o’clock in the 
afternoon. 

She had finished dressing, and was lean- 
ing out of one of the windows of her bed- 
room, when suddenly the court-yard of the 
chateau was filled by an agitated, excited 
crowd. Almost immediately some peas- 
ants, bearing a litter, appeared. This lit- 
ter was covered with a sheet — with a 
large crimson star on one side — and under 
its folds the stiff outline of a human form 
was to be distinguished. 

At this appalling sight Diane was frozen 
with horror; sh:* could not tear herself 
from that window. 


202 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


That same morning her husband and 
Monsieur de Clinchan, accompanied by 
Montlouis and a servant named Ludovic 
had gone out for some sport in the vi- 
cinity. Evidently one of those four men 
lay under that sheet. Which? 

The doubt was not of long duration. 
Octave appeared. He was pale and hag- 
gard and looked as if he were dying. 
Monsieur de Clinchan and Ludovic sup- 
ported him. 

The dead man then was Montlouis. 

It was no longer necessary to maneuver 
for the secretarj'-’s dismissal. There was 
no further danger that he would speak. 

This thought, as quick as a flash, darted 
through the mind of the lady and gave 
her strength to go down stairs. But, half 
way down, she met Monsieur de Clinchan 
who was coming up. When he saw her 
he seized her arm and said, in a strange, 
harsh voice : 

Go back, madame, go back ! ” 

But in Heaven’s name what has hap- 
pened?” 

‘‘A frightful misfortune. Go back to 
your room, I entreat yoti; your husband 
will be here presently.” 

He fairly pushed her into her room as 
Octave appeared. 

When he saw his wife, he extended his 
arms, drew her to his breast, and, as he 
pressed her tightly, he burst into sobs. 

“He weeps!” murmured Monsieur de 
Clinchan. “He is saved! I thought he 
would go mad.” 

Then after many questions and incohe- 
rent replies, Madame de Mussidan under- 
stood that her husband had accidentally 
killed Montlouis. 

Diane believed in this fatality. 

And yet the truth was not told. 

Montlouis was killed by her, as the Due 
de Charapdoce had been. He |had died 
because he had known her secret. The 
following are the details : 

Octave, a trifle excited by a bottle of 
Sauterne, began to rally Montlouis on his 
mysterious disappearances, and to insist 
that, of course, some woman must be the 
cause. 

For a while Montlouis laughed, but 
Anally there came some few words of 
severe criticism leveled at the woman he 
loved so well, and he replied with some 
spirit. This irritated his master, and he 
went on to say that he would not permit 
such escapades to continue, and reproached 
his secretary for risking the loss of the 
position he held for a woman who was 
worthy neither of respect or affection, 
who deceived him, and laughed at him in 
the society of other men. 

Montlouis listened with compressed lips, 
pale face, and clouded eyes. 

“ Hot a word more, sir; I forbid it.” 

His tone was so disrespectful that Oc- 
tave raised his hand to strike him. 

Montlouis avoided the blow; but he 


was so drunk with rage that this last in- 
sult was too much for him. 

“What right have you to talk in that 
way,” he cried; “you, who have married 
the mistress of another man? It comes 
with a good grace from you, when your 
wife is ” 

The word was never uttered, for he re- 
ceived in his heart the entire contents of 
Octave’s gun? 

How did Monsieur de Mussidan conceal 
the truth from Diane ? He loved his wife 
passionately, and true passion is capable 
of everything. He felt that, let the insult 
be what it would, he could never have the 
courage to separate from Diane, and that 
he would pardon her for anything and for 
all things that she might choose to do, or 
had already done. 

Acquitted by the judges, thanks to Lu- 
dovic’s clearing testimony. Octave was 
not absolved by his conscience. 

The young girl who had loved Mont- 
louis had just given birth to a son, and 
had been exiled from her home in dis- 
grace. Octave hunted her up, and, with- 
out giving any reason, told her that he 
would always look out for her son, whom 
she named Paul, after Montlouis. 

A few days later Monsieur de Mussidan 
and his wife left Poitou, for Diane was 
more than ever determined to live in Paris. 
She had taken into her service a former 
maid of Marie de Puymandour’s, and from 
that woman Diane discovered that Marie, 
before her marriage, had loved George de 
Croisenois, and she intended to use that 
knowledge some day as a weapon to in- 
jure Herbert. 


CHAPTEB XL. 

The marriage of Herbert with Made- 
moiselle de Puymandour was totally with- 
out that light which generally gilds the 
honeymoon. 

When they answered “ yes,” there was 
already between them an abyss of ice. 
Each day it became deeper. 

And no one could do anything — no one 
could soften the perpetual shocks of two 
characters so singularly, and in an equal 
degree, proud and aggressive. 

When Herbert, the day after his father’s 
death announced that he was about to go 
to Paris, Monsieur de Puymandour ap- 
proved of this resolution. He fancied 
that were he to remain alone in the coun- 
try he could in some measure replace the 
old Due, and probably to give additional 
weight to his acts, he told his son-in-law 
that he would establish himself at Champ- 
doce, which he did at once. 

It was not until the young Duchess ar- 
rived in Paris that she fully realized that 
she was, in sad truth, the most unfortunate 
of women. 

Champdoce was almost the same as 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS. 


203 


home ; her eyes rested on a familiar land- 
scape, friends came to see her, and if she 
went out she met friendly faces. Here all 
was strange and inimical. 

The late Due de Champdoce. economical 
as he had always been where he and Nor- 
bert were concerned, had become the grand 
.seigneur when he thought himself working 
for his descendants. 

This hotel prepared for his grandchildren 
was a miracle of luxury. 

Norbert and his wife, on their arrival, 
could easily believe that they had been ab- 
sent not more than a week, so entirely in 
order was everything. 

Meanwhile, Norbert, had he been left to 
his own devices, would have been much 
embarrassed; but he had a counsellor — 
the faithful Jean — who kept up all the 
traditions of the good old times, and soon 
put the whole house on its proper footing. 

At Paris one can buy everything, even 
time. In two weeks Jean had peopled the 
various departments. The offices and an- 
te-rooms swarmed with well dressed ser- 
vants, the stables had their horses, and the 
carriage house was crowded. 

Put, to the youthful Duchess, all this 
niovement, this air of princely prodigality, 
did not animate the hotel — to her it was 
empty and mournful. 

She lived under the continual impression 
of a vague indefinable terror, the heart 
weighed down by an inexpressible anguish, 
nervously starting at each noise. 

And there was no one to whom she could 
open her lips. 

Her old Parisian friends Norbert had 
forbidden her to see. He did not consider 
them sufficiently distinguished. They 
were in deep mourning, and N^orbert had 
announced that they would not receive 
visitors until the following year. 

She felt herself alone and deserted. 

How was it possible that the remem- 
brance of George de Croisenois should not 
come back to her? Had her father been 
willing, she might have been his wife at 
that very moment. Together they might 
be wandering in some blessed spot — in 
Florence or Naples. He loved her, while 
Norbert 

Norbert led one of those stormy lives 
which are sure to end in ruin or suicide. 
Presented on his arrival in Paris at a cer- 
tain fashionable club, by his uncle, the 
Chevalier de Septraor, he was received 
with enthusiasm, being regarded as a 
great card. 

He bore one of the historical names of 
France — his fortune, large as it was, was 
supposed to be three times larger — he was 
surrounded, feted., and caressed. He knew 
nothing but flattery. 

Not being able to make any claim to be 
the most fully cultivated or elegant of his 
circle, he sought to distinguish nimself by 
his brutality and cynicism. He threw his 
money out of the window, as it were, by 


keeping race-horses, and succeeded in bet- 
ting on the winning horses, and showed 
himself everywhere in the companionship 
of women without reputation. 

His days were spent in riding and in the 
fencing gallery, his nights in supping and 
gambling. His wife almost never saw 
him. When he entered his hotel it was 
generally at dawn, half intoxicated and 
having generally lost large sums at play. 
Jean, this faithful guardian of the honor 
of the Champdoce mansion, sighed, not so 
much at seeing his master on the high road 
to ruin, but at seeing him always sur- 
rounded by such equivocal companions. 

‘‘Think of your name, sir,” he said — 
“ your name.” 

“ Oh ! what does that matter, provided I 
live fast and die soon? ” 

One single thought came out distinctly 
in all this darkness, and that was Diane. 
In no way could he forget her, do what he 
would. Even amid the fumes of wine his 
brain depicted this beloved woman's form 
standing out, and shining like a light into 
the darkness. 

This existence had lasted about six 
months, when, one lovely afternoon in 
February, as Norbert rode down the Av- 
enue des Champs Elysees, he saw a lady 
bow to him in a friendly way. She was 
in a magnificent 'open caleche., notwith- 
standing the cold, and was enveloped to 
the chin in the rarest and most priceless 
furs. 

Norbert supposed her to be one of the 
many actresses whom he knew, and turned 
his horse toward the carriage. As he 
neared it, he discovered, to his infinite 
amazement, that it was Diane, Madame de 
Mussidan. 

He went on, nevertheless, and as the car- 
riage had just stopped, he drew his horse 
up at its side. 

Diane was as much agitated as himself, 
and for a few moments neither spoke. 
Their eyes were riveted on each other, and 
they sat with suspended breaths, as if they 
felt a presentiment of that which Fate was 
preparing for them. At last Norbert re- 
alized that they must speak, no matter 
what they said, for the servants were look- 
ing at them with curious eyes. 

"‘You here, madarne, in Paris!” he ex- 
claimed. 

She had disengaged her hand from 
among her furs, and as she extended it to 
him, she said, in a tone that was half ten- 
der, half jesting: 

“I hope we shall always be friends — 
good friends. Au revoir/^^ 

The coachman, as if the words “ Au re- 
volt'' had been a signal, touched his horses, 
and the magnificent turn-out rolled away. 

Norbert had not taken Diane’s hand ; he 
was too bewildered. But he presently re- 
alized what he had done, and driving his 
spurs into the side of his spirited animal, 
he dashed toward the Arc de Triomphe. 


204 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


“Ah!” he said aloud, with despair 
gnawing at his heart, “ I love her still. I 
can never love any one but her ! ” 

“But I will see her again! ” he said to 
himself. “She has not forgotten me — 
both eyes and voice said she had not.” 

At this moment a gleam of sense shot 
through his mind. 

‘‘A woman like that,” he said, “never 
pardons certain offenses. When she seems 
most cordial, then there is most to fear.” 

Unfortunately this common-sense view 
of the matter did not remain with him long, 
^and that evening he went to the club with 
the intention of making some inquiries 
about the Mussidans there. 

The next day, on the Champs Ely sees, 
Norbert met Madame de Mussidan — and 
then for days and days afterwards. 

Each time they met they exchanged a 
word or two ; and at the begining of the 
following week, after many hesitations, 
Diane finally promised Norbert that the 
next day at three she would get out of her 
carriage at the Bois and grant him an in- 
terview. 

Madame de Mussidan said: “At three 
o’clock.” But before two, Norbert was 
at the rendezvous, boiling with impatience 
and tortured by uncertainty. 

He said to himself: “Is this really I, 
waiting for Diane, as 1 did at Bevron? ” 

How many events had taken place, and 
how many changes ! It was not Diane for 
whom he was waiting, it was the Com- 
tesse de Mussidan, the wife of another. 

And he himself was married. 

It was no longer the mere caprice of a 
father who separated them now — it was 
Duty, Law and Society. 

“ Why,” he said in his mad excitement 
— “ why should not Diane and he set at 
defiance all these absurd prejudices? Why 
should not one leave her husband, the 
other his wife? ” 

The hour was nearly gone — in which 
time iN'orbert had looked at his watch at 
least sixty times. 

“If she should not come ! ” . 

As he said this, he saw a carriage stop, 
and a lady alight. 

It was she. 

She came rapidly along — crossing an 
open space without noticing the brambles, 
as that diminished her distance to the spot 
where she knew ^NTorbert to be waiting. 

Herbert advanced to meet her. She 
took his arm silently, and drew him 
deeper into the Bois. It had rained for 
several days, and the paths were very 
muddy, but this Madame de Mussidan did 
not seem to notice. 

•"Let us go on,” she said, “iftitil we 
cannot , be seen from the road ; I have 
taken every precaution — my carriage and 
servants are waiting for me in front of the 
doors of Saint Philip du Houle, but I may 
have been watched nevertheless.” 

“ Once you were not so timid.” | 


“I was my own mistress then — my 
reputation was all my fortune, but it was 
mine — I had a right to risk it, for if I lost 
I injured onlj^ myself; but in marrying, I 
received into my charge a sacred deposit 
— the honor of the man who gave me his 
name. I must keep it — must keep it in- 
tact ! ” 

•• Say that you love me no longer.” 

She stopped, crushed Herbert with one 
of those icy stares of w^hich she held the 
secret, and slowly answered : 

•• Your memory is failing, I think. I, 
on the contrary, remember a certain 
letter.” 

With an entreating gesture, Herbert in- 
terrupted her. 

“ Mercy ! ” he stammered. “ Have pity 
on me! You would have some compas- 
sion if you realized the horrors of my 
chastisement. I was blind ! mad ! stupid ! 
Hever did I so love you as at this hour.” 

A smile curved Diane's exquisite lips. 
Herbert told her nothing that she did n . u 
know before; but she wished him (..> 
speak. 

••Alas!” she murmured, *•• what can I 
say? nothing but the fatal words: Hoo 
late ! ' *’ 

“ Diane ! ” 

He tried to take her hand — she drew it 
away hastily. 

“Oh!” she cried, with a wild look; 
“ do not use that name, you have no right. 
Is it not enough to have sacrificed the 
young girl? — do not dishonor the wife! 
You must forget me — do you hear? It is 
to say that I came. The other day when 
I saw you, I was not altogether mistress 
of myself — my heart went out to meet 
you, and I allowed you to see this. But 
draw no conclusions from my weakness. 
I said to you : ‘We are friends ; ’ but that 
was folly. We cannot be friends, and we 
must therefore become strangers.” 

"‘You forget,” she continued, “that at 
Bevron it was said that I was your mis- 
tress. Do you think that this calumny 
will not reach my husband's ears? One 
day when your name was mentioned in 
his presence, I read suspicion and hatred 
in his eyes. Good God ! Did he suspect 
when I go in, that your hand had touched 
mine, he would drive me away from his 
roof like a degraded wretch. Is not the 
door of our home always closed to you? ” 

“ Ah ! I am very miserable ! ” 

“ Be a man — and if in your heart still 
lingers one ray of affection for me, prove 
it by never trying to see me.” 

She hurried to her carriage, leaving 
in Herbert’s heart a more subtile poison 
than that she had intended for the Due de 
Champdoce. She knew just the chords 
which vibrated in him. and how to attack 
them. She was certain that before a 
month he would be at her feet, and she 
could exercise over him a subjection more 
absolute than ever, and that he would aid 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


205 


her to execute a certain infamous project 
she was arranging in her mind. 

After having followed her for a fort- 
night like a shadow, Norbert again ap- 
proached her on the Champs Elysees : she 
was displeased, but not to such a degree 
that he was afraid to repeat his offense. 
She wept, but her tears could not keep him 
away. 

Her defense seemed very heroic to Nor- 
bert, but by degrees it grew weaker. She 
granted him one interview, then two more. 

But what were these interviews? They 
took place in a church, or in a museum, or 
at the Bois, and they hardly dared to even 
shake hands. 

She ended by telling him that she had 
found a method of making their interviews 
less hazardous. It was — but she dared 
not say it. . Norbert urged her to speak. 
She allowed herself to be persuaded. It 
w^as, that if she could become the friend 
of the Duchess of Champdoce ! 

This time Norbert felt certain that she 
was altogether an angel, and it was de- 
cided that on the next day he would pre- 
sent her to his wife. 


CHAPTEB XLI. 

If was early in March on a Wednesday. 
Instead of breakfasting in his own room, 
or at the club with his friends, the Due de 
Champdoce had seen fit to join his wife. 

He was in the best possible humor, 
smiling and gentle, in short, as his wife 
had never once seen him since their most 
unfortunate marriage. 

Madame de Champdoce could not under- 
stand it. This total metamorphose fright- 
ened her. She felt that it portended some 
grave event which was about to change 
her life in some strange way. 

Norbert waited with manifest impatience 
until the servants had finally completed 
their duties and retired. As soon as he 
was alone with his wife, he said, as he took 
her hand and kissed it gallantly : 

‘‘ It has been a long time, my dear Marie, 
since I resolved to open my heart to yon. 
A frank and amicable explanation has be- 
come inevitable.” 

“ An explanation ! ” 

‘‘Good heavens! yes — but do not let 
that word startle you. I have appeared, I 
fear, the saddest and most dismal of hus- 
bands.*’ 

“Indeed!” 

“ Permit me to explain. Since we came 
here we have hardly seen eiich other. 1 
go out at mid-day and come in very late, 
and sometimes three days elapse without 
our exchanging a word.” 

The young duchess listened with the air 
of a woman who cannot believe her senses. 
Could this be Norbert accusing himself in 
this way ! 


“ I have no complaint to make,” she 
stammered. 

“ I know that, Marie. You are a noble 
and dignified woman ; you are, however, a 
woman, and a young one. It is impossible 
that you should not have judged me.” 

“ Indeed, sir, I have not.” 

“ So much the better. I shall, therefore, 
not be obliged to defend nor excuse my- 
self. But I wish you to know, Marie, that 
you are my first thought, even when I am 
not with you.” 

He was" evidently trying to appear good, 
kind, and affectionate, but his efforts were 
useless ; for, while his words were almost 
tender, his voice was not even friendly. 

“I know my dut}'-, sir,” said the duch- 
ess. 

“ Pray, Marie,” he interrupted, “ let 
there never be a question of duty between 
us. The causes of your isolation you know, 
as well as I. The friends of Mademoiselle 
de Puymandour could not be those of the 
Duchess de Champdoce. You know this.” 

“ And have I rebelled against this de- 
cree?” 

“ No, indeed. And then, too, our 
mourning prevents our visiting for four or 
five months yet.” 

“Have I asked to go out?” 

“Never; which is all the more reason 
that I should try to do something to make 
your home pleasant. I would like to see 
at your side some person whose society 
would be congenial to you. Not one of 
those simpletons whose heads have nothing 
in them but pleasures and toilettes, but a 
sensible woman near your own age, of 
your own rank — a woman of whom you 
could, in short, make a friend. But where 
is such a one to be found? Such connec- 
tions between young women are full of 
peril, and yet on such often depends the 
happiness or misery of a home.” 

He tripped over his phrases, and caught 
himself up, like a man who. having to ex- 
press a ditficult idea, turns it in every pos- 
sible way. 

“At last,” he resumed more glibly. “I 
think I have discovered the company of 
whom I dreamed for you. I met her at 
the house of Madame d’Ailange. who sang 
her priises, and I hope to present her to 
you to-day.” 

“ Here? ” 

“ Of course. What is there strange in 
that? This lady, besides, is not a stranger 
to us. She is from our own home; you 
know her ! ” 

He colored as he spoke, and feeling this, 
he bent over the fire as he added : 

“You remember Madame de Laure- 
bourg?” 

“ Diane de Laurebourg do you mean? ” 

“ Precisely.” 

“Oh! I saw very little of her. Her 
father and mine were not over pleased with 
each other. The Marquis de Laurebourg 
regarded us as too insignificant to ” 


206 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


“Ah, well!” he interrupted, “I hope 
that the daughter will obliterate the faults 
of the f .ither. She married just after we 
did, and her husband is the Vicomte de 
Mussidan. In short, she is coming to call 
on you to-day, and I have told your ser- 
vants that you receive.” 

This silence lasted for a couple of min- 
utes, and began to be somewhat embarras- 
sing, when just then the sounds of carriage 
wheels were heard grinding on the sand in 
the court-yard. 

The Comtesse de Mussidan was in the 
salon. 

Norbert rose with the most marked ea- 
gerness. He took his wife’s arm and drew 
her along. 

“ Come, Marie, come ! — it is she ! ” 

It was not without much thought that 
Diane had decided on this strange and au- 
dacious step — to this visit paid in defiance 
of all received ideas of propriety. She ex- 
posed herself , and she knew it well, to the 
most painful humiliations. 

Almost a minute elapsed while Madame 
de Mussidan was alone, and it seemed to 
her a century, when the door opened, and 
Norbert and his wife appeared. 

It was then, with the most charming 
grace and with a smile on her lips, that 
the Comtesse de Mussidan bowed before 
Madame de Champdoce, excusing herself 
gayly for her importunity. 

“ She had not been able,” she said, “ to 
resist the desire of seeing her old neighbor 
now that she was so near ; she had, there- 
fore disregarded all the convenances so 
that together they might talk over Poitou, 
Bevron, Champdoce, and all that beautiful 
country where she was born, and which 
she loved so dearly.” 

The duchess listened in silence to all this 
flow of words. She had bowed with great 
coldness, and her face said more clearly, 
perhaps, than was customary in good so- 
cietj?', that her surprise was great in re- 
ceiving this unexpected visit. 

A more perfectly possessed individual 
than Diane might have been disconcerted. 
But the present annoyance was so small in 
comparison to the advantages she hoped 
to derive, that she brought to bear on the 
situation all the resources of her wit and 
cleverness. 

N'orbert was wandering up and down 
the room, none too comfortable in the con- 
temptible role which he had accepted. 

As soon as he decided that the ice was 
broken and that the two women were con- 
versing amicably, he left them, uncertain 
whether he should be glad or sorry at the 
success of this most unworthy comedy. 

The task was more difficult than he sup- 
posed. After what ^ilorbert had told her 
of his wife, Madame de Mussidan thought 
she would be received by the duchess a 
little as if she had been an angel come 
down from heaven to visit and console a 
prisoner. She expected to find a simple. 


artless sort of woman who, on her first 
visit, would throw her arms around her 
neck and who, afterwards, would abandon 
herself entirely to her influence. 

Far from being a discouragement, how- 
ever, Diane was exhilarated by this unex- 
pected difiiculty ; and such were her pow- 
ers of fascination, that when she left the 
first step was achieved. 

That same evening Madame de Champ- 
doce said to her husband : 

“ I think that the countess is an excel- 
lent woman ! ” 

“Excellent is precisely the word,” an- 
swered Norbert. “ All Bevron wept when 
she left; she was the providence of the 
poor.” 

He was flattered by Diane’s success. 

Was it not for him that she displayed so 
much address — was it not another proof 
of the vehemence of her passion I 

His content diminished considerably the 
next day, however, when he saw Madame 
de Mussidan in the Champs Ely sees. She 
was sad and preoccupied. 

“What has gone wrong, my friend?” 
he asked. 

“I — I repent bitterly of having yielded 
to the entreaties of my own heart and 
your supplications. Alas! we, too, have 
committed a terrible imprudence.” 

“ We! And how?” 

“ Norbert, your wife suspects some- 
thing.” 

“She — impossible! She sang your 
praises after your departure.” 

“If that is the case, she is cleverer than 
I supposed, for she is able to conceal her 
suspicions, and has determined to verify 
them.” 

Diane’s tone was so grave that Korbert 
was positively startled. 

“What is to be done, then?” he asked. 
“ What are we to do? ” 

“ To give up seeing each other would 
be best.” 

“Never! Never!” 

“Let me think, then; and in the mean- 
time, dear friend, be prudent. In the 
name of Heaven, be prudent.” 

The result of this was that Norbert en- 
tirely changed his habits of life. No more 
clubs nor suppers, nor nights spent in 
gambling and drinking. 

He went about with his wife in the day, 
and often spent his evenings at home. At 
the clubs he was accused of being a model 
husband. 

This great change did not take place 
without many an inward revolt on his 
part. He was humiliated by the constant 
hypocrisy to which he was condemned; 
but Diane’s small, white hand so slender 
and so frail was yet as firm as steel. 

“You must live in this way,” she would 
say, in reply to his complaints — “first, 
because it must be so, and next, because I 
wish it. On your present conduct de- 
pends all our future security. I wish 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


207 


Madame de Champdoce to feel that with 
me happiness entered her doors/’ 

What could be said in reply to this? 
Norbert was more in love than ever, and a 
terrible fear froze every objection upon 
his lips. 

“Should I displease her,” he thought, 
“ she would not hesitate to throw me 
over ! ” and he obeyed her. 

After standing long on the defensive 
the Duchess yielded to the charms of this 
frendship which seemed to be so frankly 
offered her, and ended by abandoning her- 
self absolutely to her mortal enemy. 

Finally, she had not a secret from her, 
and at last one day, with blushes and tears, 
after many long and confidential conver- 
sations, she acknowledged her one girlish 
love — the memory of which remained in 
her heart like some precious perfume. 
She even spoke of George de Croisenois by 
name. 

That day Madame de Mussidan was filled 
with joy. 

“ I have her at last,” she thought ; “ and 
I have vengeance in my hand ! ” 

The two young women by this time were 
like two sisters, and were constantly to- 
gether. 

But that intimacy had not given to him- 
self and Diane the liberty and facility of 
intercourse which they desired, and had 
anticipated. 

As soon as Madame de Mussidan went 
daily to the Hotel de Champdoce, i^orbert 
saw her less than before. Sometimes 
weeks elapsed without their seeing each 
o her alone for one single moment. She 
took her measures so correctly that she 
always, between him and herself, placed 
his wife, as in those Italian farces where 
Plenot, when he wishes to embrace Co- 
lumbine, finds under his lips Harlequin’s 
face. 

He became angry at times, but Diane 
always had reasons, either good or bad, 
with which to close his lips. 

She ridiculed him mercilessly sometimes, 
and sometimes she put on her grand airs, 
which always imposed upon him, and said ; 

“ For Heaven’s sake what did you ex- 
pect? Of what infamies did you suppose 
me capable? ”- 

He was managed by Diane precisely as 
if he had been a child or a fool. He knew 
this and realized it fully. 

If he could have followed Madame de 
Mussidan as before. But she was always 
guarded in the Bois or at the Races, or 
wherever she went, by a crowd of gay 
cavaliers, of which George de Croisenois 
was invariably one. 

These men were one and all disagreeable 
to N'orbert, but De Croisenois especially 
so, he looked upon him as impertinent and 
absurd, in which opinion he was far wrong. 

At twenty-five, the Marquis de Croise- 
nois passed for one of the cleverest and 
most witty men in Parisian society, and 


this reputation, as is not always the case, 
was well deserved. Many persons were 
envious of him, but he had no enemies. 
He was esteemed and loved, for his honor 
and probity were without question. His 
character, moreover, had a certain chival- 
ric and adventurous side. 

“ I should like to know,” said Norbert, 
“ what you see in this impertinent fop that 
you have him about you so much?” 

To which she invariably replied, with an 
equivocal smile : 

“You are too curious — you will know 
some time.” 

N^ot a day passed without some conver- 
sation between herself and the duchess in 
regard to Croisenois ; and she had accus- 
tomed Marie to look certain probabilities, 
or possibilities, rather, in the face, from 
the mere idea of which she would have 
shrunk a few months before with horror. 

This great point gained Madame de 
Mussidan judged that it was a propitious 
time to bring the old lovers once more to- 
gether, and thought that one unexpected 
meeting would do more than all her insin- 
uations. One day, therefore, when Mad- 
ame de Champdoce called for her friend, 
she was asked to wait in the salon for a 
few minutes. She entered, and found the 
Marquis de Croisenois. 

An exclamation of surprise escaped from 
the lips of both as they saw each other, 
and both grew very pale. But the emo- 
tion of the Duchess was such, that she 
sank into a chair near the door nearly 
fainting. 

“I had faith in you,” he murmured, 
hardly knowing what he said; “ and you 
have forgotten me.” 

“ You do not believe what you say,” 
answered the duchess, proudly. But pres- 
ently she added: “What could I do? I 
obeyed — I was weak — but I have for- 
gotten nothing.” 

Behind the door Madame de Mussidan 
listened, and, as she heard these words, 
her eyes glittered with an infernal tri- 
umph. 

She said that an interview that com- 
menced like this was not likely to be the 
last. 

She was not mistaken. She soon dis- 
covered that George and the duchess un- 
derstood each other enough to meet regu- 
larly at her house, but she did not appear 
to notice this. She waited calmly, things 
were going as she wished, and she could 
afford to wait for the avalanche, and 
which was sure to come sooner or later. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

September had arrived, and although 
the weather was atrocious, the young Due 
de Champdoce, accompanied by his faith- 
ful Jean, went to Maisons, where his 
stables were. 


208 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


The truth is, that having had a quarrel 
with Diane, he wished to try the virtue of 
absence in reducing her to submission, 
having heard the saying, that absence is 
like a wind which increases a great fire 
and extinguishes a candle. 

Korbert had been at Maisons two days, 
and was growing very anxious at not 
hearing from Madame de Mussidan, when, 
one evening, as he came in from a last 
look at his horses, he was told that a man 
wished to see him. 

He found this man to be a poor old 
creature, well known in the place, who 
subsisted partially on the alms he re- 
ceived and by the commissions with which 
he was entrusted. 

“Did you wish to see me?” asked the 

Due. 

The man half drew from his pocket a 
letter, with a knowing wink. 

“ This is for you,” he said. 

“ Very well — give it to me.” 

“ But I was told, sir, to wait until you 
were alone, for ” 

“ Kever mind. Make haste ! ” 

“ If you say so, I suppose I must.” 

Xorbert had but one idea. He took it 
for granted that this letter came from 
Diane. 

He tossed the man a louis, and hurried 
to a light with the letter. 

But the direction was not in the aristo- 
cratic, delicate hand of the Comtesse de 
Mussidan. 

“ Who the deuce could have sent me 
this?” thought Horbert. He broke the 
seal, however. 

The paper was as coarse as the envelope, 
soiled and greasy, and stamped in the left 
corner with the eternal and enigmatic 
“ Bath.” The writing was atrocious, and 
the faults of orthography innumerable. 

This was the letter : — 

“ Sir — It gives me pain to tell you the 
truth, but I can’t help it, for I must re- 
lieve my conscience. I cannot endure to 
see a woman, without heart or honor, per- 
sistently deceiving a man like yourself. I 
write, therefore, to tell you that your wife 
betrays you, and that she daily laughs at 
you. You may believe me, for I am an 
honest woman ; and it is easy, too, for you 
to satisfy yourself that I do not lie. Con- 
ceal yourself this very evening, in any 
place where you can see the small door in 
your garden wall, from half-past ten to 
eleven, and you will certainly see the lover 
come in. He has had a key for a long time. 
The hour for the rendezvous is well chosen, 
for there will not be a servant in the hotel. 
But I implore you, sir, do not be severe, 
for I would not do your wife any harm on 
any consideration. 

“ From One Who Knows.” 

Norbert read this infamous letter at one 
glance. The blood rushed to his brain, 
and he uttered an exclamation, or rather a 


roar of rage. All the servants rushed 
toward him. 

“That man! ” he cried, “where is that 
man? ” 

“ What man?” 

“ He who brought me this — this letter. 
Run after him. Bring him instantly.” 

In a minute or two the man appeared, 
dragged by two stalwart grooms. 

“I did not steal it,” he cried, “it was 
given to me. I am ready to restore it ! 

He spoke of the louis tossed to him by 
Norbert. The enormity of the sum had 
awakened his doubts as to its having been 
intended for him. 

“Keep the money; I gave it to you. 
But answer my question. Who gave you 
this letter? ” 

“ I do not know, sir,” replied the man, 
trembling. 

The man held up his right hand as if he 
were taking an oath in a court of justice. 

“ I have never seen him, sir. May my 
next pipe poison me if I am lying. He 
jumped out of a fiacre near the bridge. I 
was passing by just then. He stopped me 
and said: ‘ Do you see this letter? Just 
at half-past seven you will take it to the 
Due de Champdoce, in the house by the 
stables on the forest road.’ I says to him : 
‘ Yes, I know the place.’ Then he put the 
letter and a piece of one hundred sous, 
into my hand, jumped into the carriage, 
and drove off.” 

Norbert was discouraged, for he had had 
a vague idea that by going across the for- 
est he might catch the carriage on the 
highroad. 

‘ What was the appearance of this man ? 

“Appearance? Well, sir, I don’t know. 
He had a gold watch-chain across his waist- 
coat, but I did not notice anything else. 
He was not old, nor young, nor short, nor 
tall ” 

“ Enough ! You may go.” 

At this moment ]Morbert’s anger was di- 
rected solely toward the author of thi» 
letter. He did not place the smallest be- 
lief in the accusations against his wife. 
He did not love her but he respected her. 

“ My wife,” he said, “ is an honest 
woman, and this is some servant whom 
she has discharged, and who takes this 
mode of revenge.” 

It seemed to him that the bad spelling 
was forced. The last sentence struck him 
as especially singular. 

Another thing puzzled him. He sum- 
moned Jean. “ Is it true,” he asked, “ that 
there are no servants in my hotel to-day? ” 

“No, sir; but there will be none there 
this evening and a part of the night. 

“ And why?” 

“ Do you not remember, sir, that your 
head coachman is to be married. “ Mad- 
ame was kind enough to say that she would 
not deprive any one of the ball, and that 
if the concierge and his wife were there as 
usual that would do.” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


209 


After the first excitement. IS’orbert af- 
fected a great calm, and was the first to 
laugh at so much commotion for a trifie. 

But this was mere affectation. A doubt 
had entered his soul, and suspicion cannot 
be reasoned away. 

“ Why.” said Norbert to himself, — 
‘‘why should not my wife betray me? I 
believe her to be virtuous, and attached to 
her duties ; but all husbands who are de- 
ceived believe the same, undoubtedly. 
Why should I not profit by this advice? 
Why should I not see for myself? No,” 
he continued, “ I will not descend to such 
baseness. I should be as vile as the per- 
son who wrote the letter, if I should 
accept the role of spy, which she pro- 
poses.” 

He looked up and saw that all the ser- 
vants were watching him with intense 
curiosity. 

“Go to your work I j” he cried, angrily; 
“put out your lanterns and shut the win- 
dows.” 

He had made up his mind. He took out 
his watch; it was eight o’clock; he 
thought to himself that he had just time 
to get to Paris. 

He called to Jean once more. With this 
man — the devoted slave and ally of the 
Champdoce mansion — there was no need 
of dissimulation. 

I must go to Paris this moment, 
Jean,” said Norbert. 

The old man shook his head sadly. 

“Because of that letter?” he asked, 
respectfully. 

“ Yes, because of this letter.” 

“Some one has made charges against 
my mistress.” 

“ How do you know that?” he asked. 

“ It was enough to guess, sir.” 

“Order the carriage to go on, and wait in 
front of the club — but I will go on foot.” 

“ That must not be,” Jean said, gravely; 
“ the servants may have the same idea as 
myself. You ought to go without the 
knowledge of a human being. Let the 
servants suppose you have never left 
Maisons, I will myself bring out one of 
the horses from the small stable. I will 
saddle him, and take him across the 
bridge, and you will come there and find 
me. 

“Very well; but there is no time to 
lose.” 

Jean went out quickly and Norbert 
heard him say to some servant in the cor- 
ridor : “ Put some cold meat on the table, 
the Due says he is famished.” 

Norbert entered his sleeping room, and 
put on an overcoat and riding boots, at 
the same time slipping into his pocket a 
revolver, which he had carefully examined. 

The night was very dark, a fine, icy 
rain was falling, and the roads were al- 
most impassable. 

The old valet was found at the spot 
designated with the horse. 


As Norbert leaped into the saddle he 
said: 

“ No one saw me leave.” 

“ Nor me either,” answered the faithful 
servant. “ I shall go in and attend to 
things just as if you were at supper. I 
will be at about three o’clook in that v/ine 
shop on the left. When you return just 
touch the window lightly with the handle 
of your whip.” 

The horse champed the bit impatiently. 
Norbert was off like the wind. 

Jean had made a wise choice. 

The animal stretched himself out and 
took the muddy road at an even, regular 
pace. But Norbert, by this time in a state 
of great excitement, applied the spurs. 

As he reached the Faubourg he had a 
new idea. Suppose one of his club friends 
had written this letter? In that case, they 
would of course be watching for him, and 
would keep him on the qui vive near that 
gate for two hours, and then would sud- 
denly appear to overwhelm him with rid- 
icule. 

This fear made him prudent. 

What was he to do with the horse ? 

The wine shops were still open; he 
might go into one, and perhaps he could 
find some man there. 

While hesitating he saw a soldier, on his 
way, probably, to his barracks. 

“My friend,” he said, are you inclined 
to earn twenty francs?” 

“ Of course I am, if it is not contrary in 
any way to the regulations of the service.” 

“ It is only to hold my horse and walk 
him up and down, while I pay a visit very 
near here.” 

“I can stay out a couple of hours 
more.” 

Norbert told the soldier where to wait 
for him, and went rapidly on his way. 

To make all sure, Norbert went up the 
Esplanade des Invalides, and finally en- 
tered the Rue Barbe de Touy, on which 
the garden doors of the Hotel de Champ- 
doce open. 

Almost opposite was a porte-cochere. 
Norbert took up a position in one of the 
angles, and waited. He had explored the 
whole street from one end to the other, for 
it is a very short street, and was con- 
vinced that it was utterly deserted. This 
necessarily put out of his head all idea of 
a mere mystification. He determined that 
he would wait until midnight, and if at 
that hour no person had come he would 
recognize the innocence of the Duchess by 
retiring. 

Three windows on the second fioor were 
lighted faintly, mysteriously ; and these, 
windows were those of his wife’s sleeping 
room. 

“ She is not the kind of woman,” he said 
to himself, “who would receive a lover! 
No, no ! it is impossible.” 

He got to thinking of the manner in 
which he behaved to his wife. 


210 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


Had he nothing with which to reproach 
himself? 

Two days after their marriage he had 
abandoned her entirely ; and if in the last 
few months he had condescended to show 
her any affection, she owed it, poor thing, 
to the caprice of another woman — ^who 
bestowed it upon her like alms to the 
starving. 

If a man were now with her, what right 
had he to interfere ? The law, of course, 
gave him every right, but his conscience 
accorded him none. 

He stood against the wall, immovable as 
the stone itself. He was chilled, and it 
seemed to him that life and thought were 
both fading away. 

How long had he been there — one hour 
or six? He had no idea, He pulled out 
his watch, but it was so dark that he could 
not see even that he held it in his hand. 
The clock struck the half hour, but that 
gave him no idea of the time. 

He decided to depart, when at that mo- 
ment, he heard a light footfall at the end 
of the street. He listened. He heard the 
perfect heavy tread of a peasant — of the 
man who has lived in the fields and in the 
open air. 

There was an instant’s delay. Then it 
seemed to ilorbert that the shadow moved. 
He heard a sound that he could not under- 
stand, and all was quiet — the shadow 
had disappeared. 

He understood that the door had opened 
and shut — a man had entered the garden. 
Of this there was not the slightest doubt ; 
and yet ilorbert would gladly have doubted 
still. 

‘‘ It maybe a burglar,” he thought ; but 
a burglar would naturally have accom- 
plices. This man, too, might have come 
to see some servant ; but all the servants 
were away.” 

Meanwhile, he had not taken his eyes 
from the windows of his wife's room. All 
at once, the light was brighter ; the shade 
of the lamp had been taken off, or a candle 
had been lighted. 

Yes, it was a candle, for he saw it car- 
ried across the windows of the grand stair- 
case ; and now he saw that he must accept 
the truth. A lover had certainly entered 
the garden, and this was the signal. 

Herbert shivered; the blood boiled in 
his veins ; the fog around him was like the 
fumes of a brazier. 

He ran to the door, forced the lock, and 
rushed into the garden. 


CHAPTER XLIH. 

The person who penned that anonymous 
letter was only too well informed. 

The Duchess de Champdoce was expect- 
ing George de Croisenois — it was the first 
time. Alas! the poor woman had ended 
by falling into the snare which had been 


laid for her by the woman whom she be- 
lieved to be her most tender and devoted 
friend. 

The evening before she had been in the 
salon of Madame de Mussidan, and alone 
with George. She had been moved by his 
passion, and could not resist his ardent 
words. She lost her head, and promised 
the rendezvous for which he entreated on 
his knees. 

Ah, well,” she said, ‘‘ so be it, then. 
Come to-morrow night, at half -past ten, to 
the smallest garden door — it will be kept 
shut by a stone — push it — and when you 
are inside the garden, warn me by striking 
your hands together several times.” 

These words had been overheard by 
Diane, and as she esteemed her friend suf- 
ficiently to know that swift repentance 
would follow these mad words, she kept 
close at her side all that evening, and the 
next day dined with her, and remained 
some time after dinner. 

It was only when she was alone, that the 
Duchess fully realized the enormity of her 
fault and of her imprudence. She repented 
of her weakness, and would have given all 
she possessed in the world to be able to 
retract that fatal promise. But it was im- 
possible, for her friend, MMame de Mussi- 
dan, did not leave her until the appointed 
hour was close at hand. There was one 
means of safety left, however, she could 
go down and bolt the garden door. She 
started up — it was too late, the signal 
was heard! 

Poor woman! Those light hand-claps, 
announcing a lover, rang through her soul 
like the tolling of a death-bell. She 
stooped to light a candle at the fire ; her 
hand shook to such a degree that the heated 
wax blazed, but the wick did not light. 

She was certain that Croisenois was still 
in the garden as she had not replied to his 
signal. It had not occurred to her that he 
had dared to open the door of the vesti- 
bule. But she counted without her host. 

With the most perfect art, and so natu- 
rally that it was impossible to divine the 
contemptible part she was playing, Diane 
had informed Croisenois that the Hotel de 
Champdoce was that night absolutely de- 
serted. 

He knew, moreover, from other sources, 
that the Duchess was alone, that the Due 
was at Maisons, and that all the servants 
were dancing and making merry at the 
wedding of one of them. 

George, therefore, did not hesitate ; he 
entered the house and went softly up the 
grand staircase. And when the Duchess, 
with a lighted candle in her hand, went 
into the corridor, she found herself face 
to face with George, who had come up the 
stairs noiselessly, and stood before her, 
pallid with emotion and breathless. 

She started back with a cry of despair. 

‘‘Fly!” she stammered; “fiy, or we 
are lost 1 ” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


211 


But he did not seem to hear: and the 
Duchess drew back still further — hack to 
the further wall of her chamber — and he 
followed her, having pushed to the door 
behind him. 

But this brief moment had sufficed to 
bring Marie to her senses. 

‘‘ If I permit him to speak,” she thought 
— “if he once suspects my miserable 
weakness, I am lost ! ” 

“ You must depart,” she said, “ and in- 
stantly. I was mad yesterday. You are 
too noble and too generous not to realize 
that I am speaking the truth when I tell 
you that my reason has returned to me. 
Listen to me — my frankness will con- 
vince you that I mean what I say. I love 
you.” 

De Croisenois uttered an exclamation of 

joy. 

•‘Yes,” continued Marie, “to be your 
wife I would be content to give up all the 
years of my life. I love you, George, but 
the voice of duty speaks more loudly 
within me than that of love. It may be 
that I shall die of grief, but I shall die 
without remorse, without a stain on my 
honor. Adieu I ” 

The Marquis could not consent to being 
dismissed in this way. 

“ Go ! ” repeated the Duchess, with 
some severity, “ go at once I ” 

And as he did not move she continued : 

“ If you love me, my honor should be 
as dear to you as your own — withdraw, 
and never try to see me again. That we 
never ought to see each other our present 
peril shows me very clearly. I am the 
Duchess de Champdoce, and I will keep 
intact and pure the name I bear — I will 
neither deceive nor betray.” 

“ Why did you speak of deception? ” he 
said. 

“It is true that I despise the woman 
who smiles at the husband she betrays, 
but I also say that she is noble and coura- 
geous who boldly risks all to follow the 
fortunes of the man she loves. Leave 
your name here, Marie, — your title, your 
enormous fortune, and all your luxury — 
and go with me.” 

“I love you too much, George,” she 
said softly, “ to ruin your future. The 
day would come when you would assur- 
edly regret all your self-abnegation. A 
dishonored woman must be a heavy bur- 
den.” 

George de Croisenois misunderstood her. 

“ Ah! you doubt me! ” he exclaimed — 
“ I see. You will be dishonored, you say. 
Very well, I will be dishonored too. To- 
night at the club, I* will cheat at cards, 
and be detected, and I will go out with 
lowered head. Is this being dishonored? 
Very well, I would accept this dishonor 
gladly, if to-morrow you will fly with me 
to any distant land under any name you 
choose ! ” 

“ Ah? ” she cried, “ I must not listen to I 


you. It is impossible now — impossible ! ” 

“Impossible! and why?” 

“Ah, George!” she sobbed, “be- 
cause — if you knew ! ” 

He dared put his arm around her waist, 
and was about to press his lips on that 
pure brow, when all at once he felt Marie 
totter — and she extended one arm toward 
the door. 

The door was open, and N'orbert de 
Champdoce stood motionless on the thresh- 
old. 

The Marquis saw, as in a flash of 
lightning, the situation which' he had 
himself created. 

“ Come no nearer! ” he cried, in a terri- 
ble voice ; “ stay where you are ! ” 

A sardonic laugh from Norbert recalled 
him to the truth, and made him realize the 
haste with which he had spoken, and the 
folly of his words. 

He carried Madame de Champdoce to a 
sofa and laid her upon it. She was almost 
unconscious, but she opened her ey('S 
once, and, dim as they were George read 
in them pardon and love for him who had 
blasted her happiness forever. 

This look sufficed to restore all his sang 
froid to De Croisenois. 

He turned toward Norbert. 

“ Whatever appearances may be,” he 
began, “ you have here but one person to 
punish — not even the shadow of a sus- 
picion should rest on your wife. It was 
without her knowledge — without any en- 
couragement from her — that I dared enter 
this hotel, which I knew to be empty of 
its servants to-night.” 

J^orbert did not speak. 

He, too, needed to collect himself. He 
knew when he ascended the stairs that he 
was about to surprise a lover with the 
Duchess; but he could not foresee that 
this man was precisely the one whom he 
hated most in the world. When he saw 
Croisenois, it was with difficulty that he re- 
sisted the temptation to fly at Ms throat. 

This man, whom he had suspected of 
stealing Diane’s heart, had now robbed 
him of his wife. He was silent, simply 
because his mind was in such confusion 
that he did not dare to speak. If he was 
cold and rigid as marble when ^11 the 
flames of hell rioted in his heart, it was 
because he could not move — a physical 
impossibility prevented him. With all 
this appearance of impassibility, Horbert 
was mad — absolutely mad. 

Meanwhile, Croisenois continued, with 
his arms folded across his breast. 

“ I had just come here, sir,” he said, 
“when you arrived. Why, did you not 
hear every word of our conversation — 
would to God you had — then you would 
realize all the nobility and grandeur of 
this lady’s character. My offense is very 
great, I admit, but I hold myself at your 
orders, and am ready to give you all the 
satisfaction you desire.” 


212 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


“ If I understand you aright, sir,” N'or- 
bert began, you propose a duel. That is 
to say, you, having dishonored me to- 
night, propose to kill me to-morrow ; you 
are too good I ” 

“ Sir?” 

In the game you are playing, sir, a man 
risks his life — and you have lost, I think.” 

Croisenois bowed mechanically. 

“ I am a dead man ! ” he thought, as he 
looked at the Duchess, “ and not on your 
account, either, but for a very different 
woman.” 

Norbert went on, becoming more excited 
by the sound of his own voice : 

‘‘ What do I care for a duel? I come to 
my own house in the middle of the night ; 
I am armed, and I blow out your brains — 
the law sustains me ” 

As he spoke, he had drawn from the 
pocket of his overcoat a revolver : he took 
aim at George. 

This was a terrible moment, but Croise- 
nois did not flinch. But seeing that N or- 
bert did not pull the trigger, the suspense 
became well nigh intolerable. 

‘‘ Fire ! ” he cried. ‘‘ Fire ! ” 

“IS'o!” said N'orbert. ‘‘On reflection, 
I have decided that your body would be a 
great inconvenience to me ! ” 

“My patience has its limits, sir; what 
do you mean to do? ” 

“I mean to kill you! ” he answered, in 
a tone of such concentrated rage and ha- 
tred that George shuddered; “ but it shall 
not be with a pistol ball. It is said that 
blood washes away a stain. It is false. 
When all yours is shed the spot on my es- 
cutcheon is still there. One of us must 
disappear from the face of the globe in 
such away that not a trace is left.” 

“ Very well, sir; point out the means.” 

“I know a way,” he said, “if I were 
sure that no human being suspects your 
being here to-night.” 

“ No one can know it, sir.” 

“Then,” he said, “instead of taking 
advantage of my rights, which justifled 
me in killing you, I consent to risk my life 
against yours.” 

Croisenois concealed, not without diffi- 
culty, a sigh of relief. 

“ I am at your orders, as I told you be- 
fore,” he said. 

“ I hear, and understand; but it will be 
no ordinary combat, in broad daylight, 
with seconds ” 

“We will meet wherever you say, sir.” 

“Very well. That being the case,. we 
will flght with swords, this very moment, 
in the garden.” 

The Marquis glanced toward the window. 

“ You think, probably, that the night is 
so dark we cannot see our swords ” 

“ That is true, sir.” 

“You need not be troubled, there will 
be light enough for the dying agony of 
the one who remains in the garden — for 
one of us will remain, you understand.” 


“I understand. Let us go down at once.” 

Norbert shook his head. 

“ You are in too great haste — you have 
not allowed me to present my conditions.” 

Speak, sir.” 

“ There is at the end of the garden a va- 
cant place, which is so damp that nothing 
is cultivated there, and no on? ever goes 
there. Nevertheless, it is there that I shall 
take you. We will each of us take a pick- 
axe and a spade, and in a very brief space 
of time can dig a hole deep enough to re- 
ceive the one who is killed. When this is 
done, we will lay down our spades and 
take our swords, and fight till one or the 
other drops. The one who is left standing 
will finish the other, if he is not quite dead, 
and will then roll him into the pit and 
cover him over with earth.” 

‘•Never ! ’’exclaimed Croisenois — “nev- 
er will I accept such conditions.” 

“ Take care, then! ” said Norbert; “I 
shall use my rights. In four minutes that 
clock strikes eleven — if at the first stroke 
you do not consent, I fire.” 

The muzzle of the revolver was a foot 
away from his breast, the finger of a mor- 
tal enemy was on the trigger, but to this 
danger, coming after so many emotions, 
he was absolutely insensible. 

He merely understood that he had four 
minutes to reflect and deliberate. 

The events of the last half hour had 
succeeded each other with such rapidity 
that they seemed almost incredible — so 
incoherent and absurd that he wondered 
if he were not the plaything of some odi- 
ous nightmare. 

“ You have only two minutes,” said 
Norbert. 

Croisenois started. His spirit was a 
thousand leagues from his present posi- 
tion. 

He looked from the clock to Norbert, 
and then to Marie, who lay on the couch. 
She might have been regarded’as dead, but 
for the hysterical sobs; which shook her 
from head to foot at long, irregular inter- 
vals. 

To leave her in this state, without aid of 
any kind, seemed absolutely barbarous, 
but Croisenois saw very clearly that any 
indication of compassion on his part would 
be looked upon as a new insult. 

“ God have pity on us,” he said to him- 
self; “we are at the mercy of a mad- 
man ! ” 

He asked himself with a shudder what 
would become of this woman whom he 
loved were he now to die. 

”For her sake,” he said, “I must kill 
this man, or life will be to her one slow 
agony — and I will kill him ! ” 

“ I accept ! ” he cried, in a loud voice. 

It was time, that light metallic sound 
was heard which precedes tlie striking of 
a clock, and then came the first stroke. 

“Thank you, sir,” said Norbert, coldly. 

But Croisenois had suddenly thrown 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


213 


aside that affectation of disdainful coldness 
which is the indelible seal of a certain 
education. 

‘‘Yes, 1 accept,” he said; “but I, too, 
have conditions to make.” 

‘ • But we agreed ” 

“ Allow me to explain. We are about to 
fight in your garden, without witnesses 
and in the darkness. We two are to dig a 
grave, I believe, and the one who survives 
is to bury the other ; am I right? But how 
can you be sure that this will be the end 
— tliat the ground will retain our secret? ” 

Norbert shrugged his shoulders. 

“ You do not know — you do not care,” 
resumed Croisenois, violently. “But I 
know, and 1 care — and if it should come 
to pass that some day our secret should 
be disclosed ” 

“Ah!” 

“The survivor — be that survivor you 
or me — would be accused of assassination. 
He would be arrested, imprisoned, dragged 
into a court of justice, condemned, and 
«ent to the galleys.” 

“ Unquestionably.” 

“ You say ‘ unquestionably,’ and yet you 
think that I would consent to run such a 
risk as that?” 

“ Such are the risks, certainly,” an- 
swered Norbert. “But these very risks 
are the best possible guarantee that should 
you kill me, you would conceal my death 
as I would wish to have it concealed. 

“ You must rely on my word, sir.” 

“Ah! take care, or you will force me 
to think you afraid.” 

“ And 1 am afraid of being accused of a 
murder.” 

“ But it is a danger to which I am ex- 
posed as well as yourself.” 

Croisenois was fully determined not to 
yield. 

“You say our chances are equal. Is 
that so? If I disappear, who on earth 
would dream of looking for my body here? 
You are in your own home, you can take 
overy imaginable precaution. If I kill 
you, what then? Shall I ask the Duchess 
de Champdoce to aid me? Will she not be 
herself under suspicion? Shall she say to 
her gardeners — when all Paris is on "the 
qui vive in regard to your disappearance : 

‘ Take care how you disturb the earth at 
the foot of the garden? ’ ” 

Norbert remembered that anonymous 
letter, and realized that whoever wrote it 
was possessed ot the secret. 

“ What have you to propose, then? ” 

“ Simply, that each of us, without refer- 
ring in any way to the causes of our 
meeting, shall write down the conditions, 
with an acceptance of the challenge, 
signed in full.” 

“Very well; but hasten.” 

Then the two adversaries, after the con- 
ditions were drawn up, wrote each two 
letters, dated in a foreign country where 
the survivor would mail them, and which 


could not fail to arrest any searches, fol- 
lowing a disappearance. 

When this was done Norbert rose. 

“ One word more,” he said. “ A sol- 
dier is leading my horse up and down tho 
Esplanade des Invalides — the horse on 
which I came here. If you kill me, go 
and take this horse, and give the man 
twenty francs — I promised them to him.” 

“ Very well.” 

“Now let us go down.” 

They left the room. Norbert stepped 
back to allow Croisenois to descend the 
stairs first, when he felt himself pulled 
back by his coat. He turned. 

The Duchess, too weak to stand, had 
dragged herself to him on her knees. 

Poor woman! she had heard all, and 
with clasped hands, and in an almost in- 
audible voice, she uttered an agonized 
entreaty. 

“Mercy! Norbert — I am innocent. I 
swear to you that I am innocent! You 
never loved me ! Why then do you fight? 
Mercy ! To-morrow I swear to you I will 
enter a convent — you shall never see my 
face again. Mercy ! ” 

“ Pray God that it may be your lover, 
madame, who kills me — that is your only 
hope. Then you will be free ” 

And disengaging himself with brutal 
violence, the poor woman fell back into 
her room on the floor, and he closed the 
door. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

Twenty times during that fifteen min- 
utes Norbert de Champdoce had been on 
the point of bursting out into a fury of 
passion, but twenty times he had been 
restrained by his excessive vanity. 

But he could restrain himself no longer ; 
when he left the room of his wife, he 
showed a savage earnestness and impa- 
tient ferocity that was absolutely terrific. 

As he lighted Croisenois down the grand 
staircase, he said, over and over again ; 

“ Let us hurry ! Hurry !” 

A very small thing might disconcert his 
plans — a servant returning earlier than 
the others. 

When they reached the rez de chaussee 
Norbert took Croisenois into a large room 
which looked as if it belonged to an arse- 
nal, so crowded was it with arms of all 
sorts and times. 

“ Here,” he said, in .a tone of sardonic 
raillery — “ here, I think, we can find what 
we want.” 

He placed the candle he had brought 
with him on the mantel, and jumping 
lightly on the divan that ran around the 
room, he took down several pairs of swords 
and threw them on the table. 

“Take your choice ! ” he said. 

George de Croisenois was as desirous as 
was Norbert to put an end to all the sus- 


214 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


pense of the present hour — anything was 
preferable to this agony. 

That last look from the Duchess had en- 
tered his heart like a dagger. When he 
saw Norbert thrust aside his kneeling wife, 
it was with difficulty he restrained himself 
from felling him to the ground. 

He did not condescend to look at the 
swords which were offered to him for in- 
spection, but snatching one, he exclaimed : 

“ One will do as well as another ! ” 

It is impossible,” said Norbert, ‘‘ to do 
anything in darkness like this.” 

We will not stop for that, however — 
I have an idea. Follow me through this 
narrow corridor, if you please, so that we 
may not awaken the suspicion of the con- 
cierge.” 

They reached a stable from which Nor- 
bert took a large lantern that he lighted. 

‘‘ With that,” he said, in a tone of in- 
tense satisfaction, we can see perfectly.” 

“Yes; but the neighbors can see also. 
This light, at this hour, would certainly 
awaken attention.” 

“ Do not be concerned, no one can see 
into my grounds.” 

They entered the garden, which they 
crossed diagonally, and reached the place 
which Norbert had described. 

Norbert hung his lantern on a branch. 
It gave no more light than an ordinary 
street gas burner. 

“We will dig the grave over there in 
that corner,” he said to Croisenois, “and 
then we can cover the new earth with that 
heap of straw near by.” 

He took off his overcoat, as he spoke, 
and handing a spade to Croisenois, he took 
another, saying grimly : 

“ To work ! To work I ” 

It would have taken Croisenois the whole 
night to complete tiiis task ; but the Due 
had not forgotten the painful apprentice- 
ship of his youth. 

In forty minutes the grave was dug. 

“Enough!” said iSTorbert; and throw- 
ing down his spade he took his sword, say- 
ing, as he did so : “ On guard, sir ! ” 

But Croisenois did not move — impres- 
sionable and nervous by nature, he felt 
a mortal cold strike the very marrow of 
his bones. The night — the vacillating 
light — all these hideous preparations af- 
fected his im igination. He could not take 
his eyes from that yawning grave — it fas- 
cinated and attracted him. 

“Well,” said i^'orbert, impatiently. 

“ I will speak,” he said at last, in a sol- 
emn tone. “In a minute, sir, one of us 
will be lying there dead. A man does 
not lie in the face of death. Hear me. I 
swear to you, on my honor, and on all my 
hopes of salvation, that the Duchess de 
Champdoce is innocent.” 

“You have said that before, why do 
you repeat it? ” 

“ Because it is 'my duty, sir — because, 
if I die, I think with horror that my mad 


passion has ruined the noblest and purest 
of women. Believe me, sir, I entreat of 
you, you have nothing to forgive in her. 
See here, I am not ashamed to entreat you 

— yes, to entreat you humbly — to allow 
my death, if you kill me, to expiate all. 
Be humane towards your wife — treat her 
kindly — do not make her life one long 
torture.” 

“Enough! or I shall look upon you as 
a coward.” 

“Poor fool!” cried Croisenois, “on 
guard, then, and may God decide! ” 

Their swords crossed, and the combat 
began — quick, sharp and violent. 

The space lighted by the lantern was 
but small, and while one of the adversa- 
ries was driven into the shadow, the other 
was in the light exposed to the attacks, 
but unable to parry the blows which he 
could not see. 

This was fatal to Croisenois. 

As he advanced Noibert dealt him a 
terrible blow which pierced his breast. 

The poor fellow threw up his arms, 
dropping his sword — his knees bent under 
him, and he fell back without a cry or 
sound of any kind. 

Three times he tried to rise, but three 
times his strength failed. He wished to 
speak, but could pronounce only a few 
unintelligible words, for the blood choked 
him. 

A convulsion — one long drawn breath 

— and he was dead. 

George de Croisenois was dead. 

Yes, he was dead, and Norbert de 
Champdoce stood by his side. — with eyes 
dilated in terror — with his hair rising on 
his head, shaken from head to foot by a 
horrible nervous trembling. 

He realized then, for the first time, what 
it was to see a man die by his hand. 

And yet what most disturbed Norbert 
was, not that he had killed Croisenois, for 
he believed his cause just, and that he 
could have done no other thing. But the 
sweat started on his brow in mortal an- 
guish when he thought that he must lift 
that body in his arms, and throw it, still 
warm, with its muscles still quivering, in- 
to that grave. 

He hesitated and struggled with himself 
for at least ten minutes — he enumerated 
all the reasons which made it necessary 
that he should do this at once. The risk 
of discovery — the honor of his house. 

He stooped, put out his arms, but re- 
coiled before his hands touched the body. 
His heart failed him, and he straightened 
himself up. 

At last he seized the body, and with ex- 
traordinary strength threw it into the 
grave — it fell upon the damp earth with 
a dull thud, which sounded to Norbert 
like an earthquake. The series of emo- 
tions which he had undergone ended by 
disturbing his brain. He snatched the 
spade which poor George had used so 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


215 


unskilfully such a little while before, and 
with superhuman vigor covered the body 
— filled up the grave and hammered down 
the earth, and finally covered it all over 
with straw and dried leaves. 

This is the end,” he said, aloud, “ of 
the man who wronged a Champdoce. 
This is what it cost him.” 

A few steps off, in the shadow under the 
trees, he fancied he detected a head with 
shining eyes fixed upon him. « 

The shock was so great that he stag- 
gered; but in a moment he recovered, 
and, snatching up his bloody sword, he 
rushed to the spot where he had perceived 
this frightful apparition. 

At this movement on his part a human 
form started up — a woman. She went 
like the wind toward the hotel ; he caught 
her on the steps. 

Mercy ! ” she cried, “ mercy ! Do not 
kill me.” 

He dragged her by her clothes to the 
end of the garden, under the lantern. 

She was a girl of eighteen or nineteen — 
ugly, badly made, poorly clothed, and 
d&ty. 

Norbert examined her, and could not 
recognize her. although he was sure that 
he had seen her before. 

Who are you? ” he asked. 

She answered only by a torrent of tears. 

‘‘ Come, now,” he said, more gently, 
‘‘ do not weep in this foolish way, I am 
not going to hurt you. Who are you? ” 

‘‘ I am Caroline Schemel.” 

“Caroline?” he repeated. 

“Yes, sir; I have been a scullion here 
for three months.” 

“ How happens it that you are not at 
the wedding with the others? ” 

“Alas! it was not my fault; I was in- 
vited, and I wished to go, but I had no 
dress to wear : I only have fifteen francs 
monthly wages. I am very unfortunate, 
for not one of the women in the house 
would lend me one. 

“ How did you happen to be in the gar- 
den? ” interrupted Norbert. 

“ I was very unhappy, and I sat at my 
attic window crying, when all at once "l 
saw a light in the garden. I thought it 
might be robbers, and I went down the 
servants’ stairs on tiptoe.” 

“ And what did you see?” 

“ I saw all.” 

“All what?” 

“ When I got there you and the other 
were digging. All at once I felt certain 
that you were digging for hidden treas- 
ures. But, bless me! how mistaken I 
was ! The other began to talk to you, but 
I could not hear a word that either of you 
said, and you began to fight. I was hor- 
ribly frightened, but I could not turn away 
my eyes. Then I saw the man fall back 

7 ? 

“ And then?” 

“ Then,” she repeated, with visible hes- 


itation, “ I saw you — bury him — then 


“ Did you see this man well? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Had you ever seen him before? Do 
you know his name? ” 

“ No sir.” 

Norbert thought a moment. 

“Listen, my girl,” he said. “If you 
know how to hold your tongue — if you 
know how to forget — it will be a great 
piece of luck for you that you went into 
the garden this night.” 

“I will never say one word, sir, to any 
human being. I swear to you that I never 
will.” 

“ Very well. If you keep this oath your 
fortune is made. To-morrow I will give 
you a good sum, and you may return to 
your country, and marry some good fellow 
whom you may happen to fancy.” 

“ Can that be?” 

“ It will be. Go to your room and go to 
bed. To-morrow my valet Jean will tell 
you just what you are to do, and you will 
obey him as you would me.” 

“Oh! sir — oh! sir ” 

In her transports of joy she wept and 
laughed together. 

To know that his name, his honor, and 
his life were in the hands of a girl like this, 
was to lose all repose, all security, like 
that prisoner who saw from behind his 
bars the children of his jailer playing with 
matches near a barrel of gunpowder. 

And he was at her mercy ! For Norbert 
knew that ic resolved itself into this. He 
knew that in future the least wishes of this 
girl would be orders which he could not 
dare resist. No matter what absurd no- 
tions and caprices she might take into her 
head, she had only to command and he to 
obey. 

What means could he employ to liberate 
himself from this odious slavery? He 
knew of but one. It was only the dead 
who did not speak. 

Four persons now possessed Norbert’s 
secret. First, the one who wrote the anon- 
ymous letter — whomsoever that might 
be — the Duchess, Caroline, and finally, 
Jean, to whom he would be compelled to 
confide it. 

Norbert destroyed the last traces of the 
duel, and then went to his wife’s room. 

He expected to find her unconscious, 
lying where she had fallen when he pushed 
her. 

The Duchess was seated in an arm-chair 
by the side of the fire. She was very pale, 
and her eyes were bright with fever. 

“ My honor is avenged,” he said, with a 
sneer.' “ The Marquis de Croisenois was 
avenged. I have killed your lover, ma- 
dame.” 

She was armed against this blow, appar- 
ently, for she did not start ; the expression 
became more haughty, and the lurid light 
in her dark eyes grew more intense. 


216 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


‘‘ You are mistaken,” she said, in a voice 
in which not the slightest agitation was 
perceptible. ‘‘ You are mistaken, Mon- 
sieur de Croisenois — George — was not 
my lover.” 

“Oh! spare yourself the trouble of 
lying; I ask no questions.” 

The calm impassibility of his wife irri- 
tated I^orbert unspeakably. He would 
have given the world to have disturbed 
this mood, which to him was utterly inex- 
plicable. 

But in vain did he utter the most morti- 
fying words, in the most sarcastic tone ; 
she had reached heights he could not at- 
tain. 

“ I am not lying,” she answered, coldly. 

Why should I deceive or feign. What 
have I to fear or dread again in this world? 
You wish the truth. Very well, you shall 
have it. Learn first that it was with my 
knowledge and my permission that George 
came here this evening. He came, because 
I expected him. I left the small gate open 
for him.” 

“ Madame! ” 

“ When you came, he had not been five 
minutes in my room, where he had never 
been before. I might have left you, fled 
from you, perhaps ; but living under your 
roof and bearing your name I could never 
have betrayed you. When you entered 
the room, he was begging me to go with 
him. At that moment his life and his 
honor were mine. Ah ! why did I hesitate ? 
Had I said yes, he would have been living, 
and we two might have learned that this 
life was not all sorrow — in a country far 
away from this.” 

“ Yes. I will tell you all,” she continued 
— “ all, since you desire it. And I loved 
him before I knew that there was such a 
person as yourself in existence. It is my 
own folly I now deplore — my own miser- 
able weakness. Why did I ever consent 
to be your wife? You have killed George, 
you say? No; not so. His memory will 
live forever in my heart, radiant arid im- 
perishable.” 

“Take care!” cried Norbert; “take 
care! If ” 

“ Ah ! you will kill me, too? Do so ! I 
will make no struggle for my life ; it is 
nothing without him. He is no more. I 
have lived, and life has no charms for me 
now — death would be welcome. To kill 
me would be the only boon you could now 
bestow upon me! Strike! You would 
unite us in death, and my lips would mur- 
mur, as they grew rigid and cold : 
‘ Thanks I Thanks ! ’ ” 

Norbert listened, confounded, petrified, 
astonished that he had still any power left 
to feel, after the terrible scenes through 
which he had passed. Was this she — 
Marie, his wife — who expressed herself 
with this unheard of violence — who 
braved him thus, and defied his anger? 

How could he have so misunderstood 


her? He forgot all his resentment in his 
admiration. She seemed to him absolutely 
transfigured — her beauty was something 
unearthly — her eyes glistened like stars, 
and her superb hair fell around her shoul- 
ders in heavy masses. 

This was passion — real passion — not 
that mocking shadow which he had so 
long pursued. Marie was capable of lov- 
ing, and not Diane — that blonde with 
steel-blue eyes — for whom love was a 
battle or*a jest ! 

This was a revelation — what would he 
not have given could he have effaced the 
past. 

He went toward her with extended arm. 

“ Marie ! ” he said, “ Marie ! ” 

“ I forbid you,” she said — “I forbid 
you to call me Marie.” 

He did not reply, but went nearer — 
when, all at once, she threw herself back 
with a fearful shriek. 

“Blood! ” she cried — “blood on your 
hands ! ” 

Norbert looked at his hands. It was 
true. On his cuff was a large spot of 
blood. 

The Duchess pointed to the door. 

“ Go ! ” she cried, with extraordinary 
vehemence — “go! I will not betray you 

— I will keep the secret of your crime. 
Do not forget that a corpse lies between 
us, and that I hate you ! ” 

Rage and jealousy tore Norbert’s heart. 
Croisenois, although dead, would still in- 
terfere with him. 

“ And you,” he said, in a hoarse voice 

— “ you seem to forget that I am your 
husband — that you are mine — that I can 
make your life one long agony. I desire 
to remind you of this fact. To-morrow, 
at six o'clock, I shall be here.” 

He left the hotel just as the clock struck 
two, and huiried to the Esplanade des In- 
valides. 

“ Steady at his post,” as the soldier said, 
he was still leading Romulus about. 

“ Upon my word ! ” he exclaimed, when 
Norbert appeared. “You make long 
visits ! I had leave to go to the theatre 
only, and I shall get into trouble.” 

“ Pshaw ! I told you I would give you 
twenty francs. Take these,” and Norbert 
gave him two louis. 

“Ah!” exclaimed the soldier, in de- 
lighted astonishment. 

An hour later, and Norbert rapped on 
the window of the cabaret where Jean 
was waiting. 

“ Take care not to be seen when you 
take the horse in, and then come to 
me, I need your advice and experience.” 


CHAPTER XLV. 

Grief, anger and horror had kindled a 
terrible fever in the blood of the Duchess 
de Champdoce, which gave her strength, 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


217 


as long as she was in the presence of her 
husband. 

As soon as she was alone all her exalta- 
tion died, like a fire built of straw, and 
exhausted by the eftbrt she sank on a 
sofa, half fainting and sobbing. Her des- 
pair was the greater, for she reproached 
herself for the death of Croisenois. 

If I had not granted that fatal rendez- 
vous,” she said to herself, ‘‘ he would be 
living now; it is my love that killed 
him ! ” 

The idea of going to her father occurred 
to her; she rejected it, however, for what 
good would it do? The Count de Puy- 
mandour would hardly listen to her, or he 
would say : 

“You are a Duchess, you have five hun- 
dred thousand livres income ; you must be 
happy, or if you are not you ought to be!” 

The night passed in untold anguish, and 
when her women, about ten o’clock the 
next morning, entered her room, they 
found her stretched on the fioor, dressed 
as they had last seen her at dinner. Her 
limbs were stiff and cold, her head was 
fonrning, and her eyes glistening. 

No one knew what to do, and four mes- 
sengers were sent, one after the other, to 
hasten the physicians, when Norbert ar- 
rived from Maisons. 

He was eagerly welcomed, and a gen- 
eral feeling of relief pervaded the house- 
hold. 

Norbert had grown very uneasy as to 
what had taken place in his absence. 

He interrogated the maids as skilfully 
as he knew how to do, and while thus 
occupied not one physician, but two 
arrived. 

When they had seen the Duchess they 
did not conceal their opinion of the gravity 
of the situation, nor did they hesitate to 
say that it was more than doubtful if she 
lived through this strange attack, and ad- 
vised a consultation for the afternoon. 

They urged the strictest adherence to 
their prescriptions, the most careful watch- 
fulness, and retired. 

These injunctions were unnecessary. 
Norbert took his place at his wife’s bed- 
side, determined not to leave her until she 
was either better or dead. 

She had a terrible fever, and in her de- 
lirium uttered many a disconnected phrase, 
the key of which was held by Norbert, 
and which made him shudder. 

This was the second time that he had 
been compelled to guard a secret in the 
same way. Formerly, at Champdoce, it 
was his father whom he watched — the 
father who could disclose the terrible crime 
he had attempted. And now it was his 
wife he guarded, so that he could snatch 
from her lips, before they were uttered, 
the words which would disclose the fate 
of De Croisenois. 

Forced to sit at Marie’s side — forced to 
the contemplation of the past — he was 


horror-stricken to see that he, at twenty- 
five, had to look back upon such appalling 
crimes, and forward to a life filled with 
remorse and gloom. What a future was 
this to follow such a past ! 

And the delirium of the Duchess was 
not his only care. Every ten minutes he 
rang, to ascertain if Jean, his faithful 
valet, had not yet been seen. 

“ As soon as he comes send him to me,” 
was the Due’s invariable direction, each 
time he rang. 

Jean came at last, and Norbert at once 
led him aside into the embrasure of a win- 
dow. 

“Well?” he said. 

“ It is all arranged, sir — be easy.” 

“ This Caroline •” 

“ Is gone, sir. I put her myself into the 
train, after giving her twenty thousand 
francs. She has left Paris, and proposes 
to go to America to find a cousin, who will 
marry her in all probability — at all events 
this is her hope.” 

Norbert breathed more freely — the 
thought of this Caroline Schemel had been 
a fearful weight. 

“ And the other matter? ” he asked. 

The old servant shook his head sadly. 

“ What have you done? ” 

“I have discovered a young traveling 
clerk, an honest fellow I am told, who 
thinks I wish to send him to Egypt to buy 
cotton. He will start to-day, and will 
mail the two letters written by the Comte 
de Croisenois — one at Marseilles and the 
second at Cairo.” 

“ And you do not see that these letters 
will make me perfectly secure? ” 

“I see that the least carelessness on the 
part of our agent, or the merest accident 
may betray us.” 

“ And yet it must be done.” 

The physicians after their consultation 
had given a ray of hope, but it was very 
faint. It was suggested, that her reason 
might always be impaired. And during 
all these hours, which seemed an eternity, 
Norbert dared not even close his eyes, and 
it was with a sick dread that he allowed 
the maids to do anything around their 
mistress. 

On the fourth day the fever turned, 
Marie slept, and Norbert had leisure to 
refiect. 

How was it that Madame de Mussidan, 
who came every day, had not made her 
appearance? This circumstance seemed 
to him so extraordinary that he ventured 
on writing her a brief note informing her 
of the illness of his wife. 

An hour later he received this laconic 
reply : 

“ Do you believe there is any reason for 
Monsieur de Mussidan’s sudden announce- 
ment that we are to spend the winter in 
Italy? We leave to-night. Farewell! 

D.” 


218 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


She left him then! Left him alone, 
and took with her every hope in the 
world. But he was still so blind that he 
forced himself to believe that this depart- 
ure was as great a blow to her as to him- 
self. 

Five days later, when Madame de 
Champdoce was out of danger, but he 
himself was still stunned and bewildered, 
the physician took him aside with a mys- 
terious and solemn air. 

He wished to announce a great and 
happy, as well as startling piece of intelli- 
gence : 

The Duchess de Champdoce was en- 
cienteP 

It was this knowledge that prevented 
her from leaving her husband’s roof, and 
which had given her courage to resist the 
entreaties of her lover when he urged her 
to fly with him. She hesitated, she wav- 
ered, and was about to yield to the dic- 
tates of her heart, when this thought over- 
whelmed her. 

Unfortunately, she had not herself made 
the disclosure to her husband as soon as 
she knew it, but had allowed her physi- 
cian to inform him. 

This intelligence rekindled all Norbert’s 
rage. He turned pale, and his eyes flashed 
fire. 

Thanks, doctor,” he stammered — 
‘‘ thanks for this good news. It makes 
me very happy, of course. Excuse me — 
I must go to the Duchess at once.” 

The fact is that Korbert, instead of go- 
ing to his wife, repaired to his library and 
locked himself in. He needed solitude to 
look this new development full in the 
face, and to regain his self-possession. 

The more Herbert reflected the more he 
persuaded himself that he had been miser- 
ably duped. He began by doubting, he 
ended by being certain that the child was 
not his. 

Was he then, reduced to the depths of 
ignominy? Must he receive the child of 
George de Croisenois and rear it as his 
own? Must he accept this living witness 
of his degradation ? 

This child would grow up in his house, 
would bear his name, and would inherit 
the enormous fortune of the Champdoce 
family. 

Never!” he cried, “never! I will 
strangle it sooner with my own hands ! ” 

The more he thought of the disgust 
which he would be compelled to hide — 
of the caresses and affection he must 
feign, to avoid the suspicions of the world 
— the more impossible it seemed to him 
that he could play this monstrous farce. 

He had besides'much just now to occupy 
his attention. The mysterious disappear- 
ance of De Croisenois was making a great 
talk, and although the letters posted by 
the emissary whom Jean liad dispatched 
thickened the mystery of the affair, they 
did not satisfy the police or the public. 


But the world soon grew tired of this 
thing ; other strange occurrences took 
place, and George de Croisenois was for- 
gotten, and at last Herbert was certain of 
his own safety. 

He had never lived, and yet he felt him- 
self utterly woim out and exhausted. He 
was not twenty-five, and yet there was no 
light to the future. He saw not one ray 
of hope. 

Diane had been gone three months, and 
in that time had accorded him no sign 
of life; an abyss of blood divided him 
from his wife; among all his companions 
he had not one friend, while dissipation of 
all kinds palled on his taste. 

He could think only of that child which 
was to come. How could he ever consent 
to bringing him up as his own? 

For some months he had turned all sorts 
of expedients over' in his head, and invari- 
ably returned to the first that had oc- 
curred to him, and which he squarely 
placed before himself thus : 

He would procure a child, it mattered 
not where or how, and this child he would 
substitute for that of the Duchess. And 
as time rolled on this plan became more 
and more firmly fixed in his own mind. 
Finally, he summoned Jean, that honest 
man, who was his accomplice only 
through his affection and devotion. 

For the first time Jean resisted. This 
act seemed to him utterly shameful, and 
he did not hesitate to show that he 
thought so, and to say that it would cer- 
tainly bring misery and misfortune to all 
concerned. 

But when he recognized that Herbert 
was determined, and that he would simply 
address himself to some other person for 
assistance, who would probably be less 
scrupulous and less adroit, he promised, 
with many tears, to obey. 

No matter. A month later Jean came 
to his master and said that it would be ad- 
visable for the Duchess 'to establish her- 
self at once at the Chateau de L , a 

place owned by the Champdoce family 
near Montoire. Once there, he, Jean, 
would answer for the rest. 

The very next day Herbert took his wife 

to L . Poor woman! she was the 

mere shadow of herself. 

She and Herbert had lived like strangers 
under the same roof — weeks sometimes 
passed without their meeting — if they 
had anything to communicate to each 
other, they wrote it. 

The Chateau de L was marvelously 

adapted to Horbert’s plan — the Duchess 
was entirely at her husband's mercy and 
discretion. She could look for assistance 
to no one — for on no one had she any 
claim. Her father, the Comte de Puyman- 
dour, had died suddenly a month before 
in consequence of a lost election. 

What went on at L at the time of 

the confinement of the Duchess ? 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


219 


That brief note which the poor mother 
wrote: ^‘Have pity; give me back my 
child ! ” discloses hardly anything of the 
contest that certainly took place there. 

One thing is certain — and that is, that 
the child of the Duchess de Champdoce 
was left by Jean at the Hospice de Ven- 
dome. 

And that which is also certain is, that 
the child which was baptized under the 
name of Anne-Rene-Gontrand de Dompair. 
Marquis de Champdoce, was the son of a 
poor girl near Montoire, who was called 
the ‘‘Witch.” 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

Here ended abruptly the manuscript 
of B. Mascarot. Paul Violaine laid down 
the voluminous book, and said in a sup- 
pressed tone : 

‘‘ Is this all?” 

It had taken him six hours to read this 
long and lamentable history of the follies 
and crimes of an illustrious house. 

B. Mascarot listened apparently with 
the satisfaction of an author who is proud 
of his work, but in reality, as he sat lean- 
ing back in his arm-chair, twirling his 
thumbs, he was watcliing with keen, sharp 
eyes from under his spectacles, the faces 
of his companions. The effect produced 
was considerable, and just what he had 
anticipated. 

Paul, Catenae and Hortebise looked at 
each other when the recital closed, with 
an air of terror. 

Catenae was the first to disturb the at- 
mosphere of vague apprehension which 
reigned in the private office of the agency. 

“ Ah ! ha ! I always said that our friend 
Baptiston was born for literature. As 
soon as he touches a pen the business man 
vanishes, and instead of notes and memo- 
randa, we have a romance! ” 

‘‘Do you really look on this as a ro- 
mance I ” asked Hortebise. 

“A romance in form, certainly — you 
will admit that.” 

“ Catenae,” said Mascarot, in a sarcastic 
tone, “ should be able to appreciate, better 
than any one else, the reality of this tale, 
he being the adviser of this noble Due de 
Champdoce, this very Herbert whose youth 
I have been describing to you.” 

“ I do not deny the foundation,” said 
Catenae, quickly. 

“ And what do you deny?” 

“ Nothing, in fact; I was merely in jest. 
I merely object to the somewhat romantic 
form in which you have stated your case. 

‘‘ Catenae,” resumed Mascarot, “has re- 
ceived many important confidences from 
his noble client. He has taken good care 
never to communicate them to us. Know- 
ing as much as he did, he, of course, had 
rettson to believe that we were going 
straight on to the rocks, and that we should 


be lost. And this kind and excellent friend 
watched us with the hope that in this way 
he should get rid of us ! ” 

The lawyer began to protest and deny, 
but Mascarot stopped him with an imper- 
ative gesture. 

After a long pause, he began again. 
“Understand, moreover, that my imag- 
ination has had little work to do, after all, 
for my manuscript is a mere joining to- 
gether of fragments. It was not to me 
that you were indebted for this ‘ romantic’ 
— I think that was the word employed by 
our learned friend — romantic form, but 
rather to the Comtesse de Mussidan, and 
also to Norbert. I am sure that certain 
phrases must have struck you forcibly. 
These I have copied verbatim. Why are 
you so astonished? ” 

“ It seems to me ” 

“ It seems to me,” interrupted Mascarot, 
“ that you have forgotten the correspond- 
ence mentioned in^ connection with the 
Comtesse. She is a very careful woman, 
and has preserved not only her own let- 
ters, which Herbert returned to her ” 

“ And we have them? ” 

“ Most certainly. A whole romance is 
in these letters, That which I have read 
to you is a poor resume merely.” 

“ This is not all,” he resumed. “ I had 
as my assistant in the elucidation of this 
dark intrigue its original instigator, Dau- 
man.” 

“ The President ! Is he living still ? ” 

“ Certainly he is, and you know him. 
He is no longer in his premiere jeunesse — 
he is a little broken, in fact, but his brain 
is intact.” 

Catenae was very serious. 

“You tell me so much ” he began. 

“ I can tell you more,” interrupted Mas- 
carot. “ I can tell you that all the details 
of the duel and of the death of that good 
and honorable George de Croisenois was 
written under the dictation of Caroline 
Schemel. This unhappy woman proposed, 
when she left Paris, to go to Havre, and 
thence to her relatives in America, but she 
went no further than Havre. The good 
looks and the persuasions of a gallant 
sailor she met there changed her plans 
very suddenly. Just as long as her money 
lasted the sailor was the most amiable of 
men, but finally disappeared with the last 
thousand-franc note. 

“Desperate, hungry, and poor, Caroline 
returned to Paris, and applied to the Due 
de Champdoce. At last the Due accepted 
her perpetual visits and demands as an 
expiation or penance. 

“ But through all this she has kept her 
promise — or rather, her oath — and but 
for her fatal passion for drink, I doubt if 
Tantaine would ever have succeeded in 
drawing a word from her. 

“ If she is what I believe her to be, as 
soon as she realizes that she confided this 
secret, when she was intoxicated, to any 


220 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS . 


one, she will go at once and warn the Due 
de Champdoce.” 

This prospect, thus presented, made 
Catenae leap from his chair with an oath. 

"‘Doyou think,” Mascarot said, “ that 
I should be as much at ease as I am, if I 
did not know that there was not the 
shadow of a peril? Let us see first what 
it is that Caroline can say. Who will she 
accuse of having stolen her secret? An 
old man named Tantaine. How do you 
suppose that the noble Due, your client, 
will be able to trace any connection be- 
tween this poor wretch and Catenae? ” 

It would be difficult, in leed! ” 

Mascarot continued : ‘‘ What have we to 
fear from the Due de Champdoce? Noth- 
ing, that I can see. Is he not as entirely 
in our power as is his former love, the 
Comtesse de Mussidan? We have his 
letters. We also know where to look in 
his garden, and for what. Kemember, 
too, that the identity of the skeleton will 
be easily settled, for De Croisenois had 
about him, when he disappeared, a million 
of francs in Portuguese gold pieces. That 
fact is distinctly stated in the proceedings 
which took place at the time of his disap- 
pearance.” 

It was amusing to watch Catenae’s face, 
and see how Ids feelings and views 
changed as he gradually became convinced 
that little or no risk was incurred by these 
proceedings. 

‘‘I will act loyally,” he said; ‘^I give 
you my word. Explain your plan, I will 
then tell you all I have learned from the 
Due.” 

A smile of satisfaction was visible for a 
moment on Mascarot’s lips. This time he 
placed entire reliance on the integrity of 
the lawyer. 

‘‘ Before all else,” he said, let me give 
you the end of the story which Paul has 
just read. It is very simple and very mel- 
ancholy. 

The Due and Duchess de Champdoce 
had not fifty years between them — they 
bore one of the historical names of France 
— they were surrounded by princely lux- 
ury — and yet their lives were completely 
at an end. They existed simply, and had 
renounced all hopes of happiness. Their 
menage must have been even well nigh 
intolerable, but they determined to save 
appearances, at least, and allowed nothing 
of their miserable interior to be suspected 
by the world. 

‘‘ The Duchess was a great invalid, and 
went out only to visit the poor and the 
sick. The Due applied himself to remedy 
the deficiences of his early education and 
had become one of the most remarkable 
men in Europe. 

‘‘And Madame de Mussidan? ’’asked 
Catenae. 

“I am coming to her. She, with the 
strange perversity of her character, did 
not consider herself completely avenged 


until Norbert learned that it was to her 
and to her alone that he owed the crown- 
ing despair of his life, and on her return 
from Italy she sent for Norbert and told 
him the whole. Yes, she dared to tell 
him that it was she who had, as it were, 
pushed his wife into the arms of Croise- 
nois — she told him that it was she who 
had ascertained the rendezvous, and had 
written him that fatal anonymous letter.” 

“ And he did not kill her? ” cried Horte- 
bise. 

“ Did she not have all his letters? And 
she threatened him with them, moreover^ 
Oh ! my friends, we need not fiatter our- 
selves that we have the monopoly of 
blackmailing ! This noble Comtesse made 
the Due shell out just as if she had been 
an adventurer. Only ten days ago she 
borrowed — she called it borrowing, you 
observe — to appease Van Klopen.” 

“ Let us be done with the past,” he con- 
tinued, ‘‘let us speak of the child who 
was taken in place of the boy which the 
Duchess brought into the world. You 
knew him, doctor?” 

“ I have seen him often. He was a 
handsome fellow ” 

“Yes, but a miserable scamp after all. 
He was educated and brought up in the 
most princely manner; but he had the 
tastes and the manners of a lacquey, had 
he lived he would infallibly have dishon- 
o red the name he bore. He was the de- 
spair of the Due and the Duchess, and it 
was, I am inclined to believe, a great re- 
lief to them when ten months ago he was 
carried oil by a brain fever after an orgie. 
He died, imploring the forgiveness of those 
whom he believed to be his parents, and 
they forgot their animosity toward each 
other by the bedside of the dying youth 
who had caused them so much sorrow, 
which sorrow they had both learned to 
accept as the chastisement of Heaven.” 

This boy being dead,” resumed Mas- 
carot, “ the name of Champdoce was con- 
demned to extinction. Therefore, Norbert, 
urged by his wife, decided to do what had 
more than once suggested itself to him — 
that is, to hunt up and reclaim the child 
which had been left at the hospital. 

It hurt his pride to retract anything he 
had said, and to go back on his steps — but 
he called it adopting a child and bequeath- 
ing to him his fortune and his name. He 
no longer doubted his paternity. 

“ It was with a heart buoyant with hope 
that he started forth for Vendome, fur- 
nished with all that was needed for identi- 
fication. A terrible disappointment await- 
ed him. 

‘ ‘ They admitted at the hospital that a 
child had been received there on the day 
named by Norbert, at the hour he desig- 
nated, with the clothing he described. 
The register proved all this, and even des- 
cribed the medal the poor little foundling 
wore around his throat. 


THE SLAVES OF PAEIS. 


221 


“ But this child was not at the hospital, 
and no one knew what had become of him. 

“ At the age of twelve, when everybody 
loved him for his sweetness and rare intel- 
ligence, he had run away from the hos- 
pital, and the most active search had 
failed to discover any trace of him.” 

It was with a keen pang that Catenae 
listened to these particulars, which were 
given with such strange detail. Evidently 
his associates were perfectly informed. 

Catenae had relied on his ability to fur- 
nish information so perfect that it should 
buy back the confidences of his associates. 

But Mascarot did not choose to see this 
astonishment, and he continued his recital : 

“ This new misfortune will certainly kill 
the Due de Champdoce. After the mis- 
eries and follies of his youth, it seemed to 
him that his old age might be passed in 
peace, and finally he ventured to indulge 
a fieeting hope that his few remaining 
years might not be altogether desolate. 

“ When at last he appeared before the 
Duchess, who was expecting him in an 
agony of impatience and anxiety, she knew 
the truth as soon as she saw liis face, and 
knew that there was no hope. 

‘‘ However, in a few days the Due had 
in a measure recovered himself, and de- 
cided that to give up the search in this 
way would be culpable cowardice. From 
these sad meditations gleamed a pale and 
furtive light. 

“ The world was wide, to be sure ; and a 
nameless boy without money, who had run 
away from a Foundling Hospital, is a mere 
atom, but ^vith money miracles can be ac- 
complished. 

“ He was willing to give his life and his 
fortune for this object. So great was his 
wealth that it was easy for him to devote 
to his interests the most skilful detectives. 
Whatever the result might be, he had now 
come to look upon this task as a positive 
duty which he must fulfil — a duty to 
which he must consecrate his energy and 
his life. 

‘‘ He swore that he would never rest — 
that he would never despair until he held 
in his hands the indisputable proofs of the 
death of his son. 

‘‘ But he did not confide his project to 
the Duchess. He feared — for he had 
learned to have some consideration for her 
— that the alternations of fear and hope 
would be more than she could bear. Her 
health was so shattered, more than ordi- 
nary excitement might kill her. He began, 
therefore, by addressing himself to that 
minor Providence which, in the Rue de 
Jerusalem, watches over society. 

But the police had nothing whatever 
to communicate to the Due. They only 
said: 

“ All right. We will see what can be 
done, call in another month. Good-morn- 
ing.’ 

“ Of course it must be understood that 


the Due’s peculiar position imposed an es- 
pecial reserve upon him. As he*could not 
tell the truth, he naturally presented the 
subject weakly, and awakened no deep in- 
terest. 

Finally he was sent to a certain Lecoq.” 

To Paul’s great surprise, this name pro- 
duced an appalling effect on the doctor, 
who started to his feet as if a whip had 
cut him across the legs. 

He mechanically touched the medallion 
on his watch-chain, and looked round the 
room with wild and haggard eyes. 

Stop ! ” he said, in a choked voice, ‘‘ if 
that Lecoq is to be mixed up in this, I with- 
draw — for nothing will go well. Ho — I 
withdraw.” 

His panic was so singular that Catenae 
deigned to smile. 

Ah ! ah ! ” he said, ‘‘ I understand your 
excitement; but do not be troubled, Lecoq 
has nothing to do with us.” 

This assurance was not enough for Horte- 
bise, who turned and looked at Mascarot. 

Lecoq has nothing to do with us,” re- 
peated the agent. The simpleton replied 
that his position prevented him from occu- 
pying himself with any private invest ig i- 
tions — which is true, by the way. The 
Due offered him a large sum if he would 
give up this position, but he refused, say- 
ing that he did not work for money, but 
for art.” 

“ Which is true, too,” interposed Cate- 
nae. 

To make a long story short, however, 
it was on the refusal of Lecoq that the 
Due addressed himself to Catenae. 

‘‘ Yes, it is all,” the lawyer said; ‘‘ and 
I have only to add that the Due has bid- 
den me superintend the searches.” 

‘‘ Have you a plan? ” 

“ Not yet. The Due said to me : ‘ Suc- 
ceed, even if you interrogate everybody 
on earth. This is all the instruction I 
have received.” 

‘•In truth,” added Catenae, shrugging 
his shoulders, I am very much of Per- 
pignan’s opinion, the enterprise is per- 
fectly senseless.” 

“ Lecoq was not of your opinion.” 

“ He simply said that he thought if he 
were to undertake it that he could suc- 
ceed.” 

“ Well,” said Mascarot, calmly, “ I, 
from the beginning, have been certain of 
success.” 

“ Have you been to Vendome? ” 

“Nevermind; I have been somewhere, 
at all events, and at this very moment I 
can lay my hand on the heir of the Champ- 
doce family.” 

“ You are jesting ! ” 

“ I was never more serious in my life — 
I have found him. Only, as it is quite 
impossible for me to appear in the matter, 
it is for you and Perpignan that I reserve 
the happiness of restoring this child to his 
father.” 


222 


THE SLAVES OF PAEIS. 


Catenae looked from Mascarot to Horte- 
bise, and then to Paul. He seemed desir- 
ous of assuring himself that he was not 
being laughed at. 

“ You do not wish to appear?” he said, 
at last to his Associate, in a suspicious 
tone. “And why? Do you suspect some 
snare? Do you wish to put me in the 
breach? ” 

Mascarot shrugged his shoulders. 

“ First,” he said, “ I am no traitor, as 
you very well know. Then, our mutual 
interest depends upon your security. Can 
one of us be compromised separately from 
the others? You know this to be impos- 
sible. The very simplicity of your role 
should convince you of this. You will 
have nothing to do but to point out the 
beginning of the scent. Others will fol- 
low it up at their own risk and peril, while 
you will have nothing to do but to look 
on.” 

uBut ” 

Mascarot’s patience was gone ; he 
frowned heavily. 

“ Enough I ” "he said, in a harsh, severe 
tone. “ No further discussion is required ; 
I am the master, you have but to obey.” 

When this man spoke in this tone to re- 
sist was a waste of time. As he bent 
every one to his will, sooner or later, the 
shortest course was to obey. 

Catenae relapsed into silence, profoundly 
humiliated, but also greatly puzzled. 

“ Go to my desk,” resumed Mascarot, 
“ and note carefully what I am about to 
say. Success, as I have told you, is cer- 
tain, but I must be ably seconded. All 
now depends on your exactitude and upon 
the precision of your movements — one 
false step may lose all. Now you are 
fully warned ! ” 


CHAPTER XLVIl. 

Without a word, veiling under an 
equivocal smile his resentment and jeal- 
ousy, Catenae seated himself at the desk. 

Mascarot was no longer one associate 
consulting with others, he was the abso- 
lute master who commands. He had taken 
from a box a dozen of those slips of , paper 
which he spent his life in studying 

Turning to Paul, he said, coldly : “ Try 
and not lose one word of what I say.” 

“ This is Thursday,” resumed Mascarot. 
“ Can you insist that the Due de Champ- 
doce and Perpignan shall go to Vendome 
on Saturday.” 

“Very possibly.” 

“ Answer me with a yes or no. Are you 
sure that you can take these people there?” 

“ Well, then, — yes.” 

“Very well; then on Saturday you go 
there, and on reaching Vendome you will 
go to the Hotel de Poste.” 

“Hotel de Poste!” grumbled Catenae, 


with the air of a secretary who repeats the 
last words of a phrase dictated to him. 

“On the day of your arrival at Ven- 
dome,” resumed Mascarot, “ you natural- 
ly would do nothing — you would rest and 
feel your way. It will be Sunday, you 
know. Nevertheless, you will go to the 
hospital together, and repeat the inquiries 
previously made by the Due alone. The 
Superior, who is a woman of the higher 
class, and a good woman too, will take the 
greatest pleasure in serving you. 

“ Through her you will again obtain the 
description of the boy, and the precise date 
of his disappearance. She will tell you 
that it was in 1856, on the 9th of Septem- 
ber, that, his departure was known. She 
will tell you that he was at that time a tall, 
vigorous lad, with an intelligent counten- 
ance, and keen, bright eyes, healthy and 
handsome, about twelve years and a half 
old, but looking fifteen. She will say that 
the little rascal wore blue and white striped 
pantaloons, and a blouse of gray linen. 
He wore, too, a cap without a visor, and a 
black silk cravat with white spots. Then 
to facilitate your investigations she will 
add that the boy carried in a red plaid 
handkerchief a white blouse, pantaloons 
of gray cloth, and a pair of new shoes.” 

The lawyer watched the agent with 
stealthy curiosity. 

“ Upon my word ! ” he muttered, “ you 
are well informed.” 

“ Passably so, I think,” answered Mas- 
errot carelessly, and in a quick, decided 
tone, he continued : “ After this you go 
back to the hotel, and not until then — you 
understand — you will hold a consultation 
as to your first steps. Perpignan’s plan is 
a good one ” 

“You know it then?” 

“I think so. He proposed to divide the 
environs of Vendome into a certain number 
of zones and to visit in succession every 
dwelling in these zones.” 

“ The project seems reasonable to me.” 

“ It is so. Let him set to work. You 
will simply employ a quiet influence to 
modify the execution. Draw his attention 
to the fact that the division is to a certain 
extent already made, and that the simplest 
course is to explore first all the communes 
and then all the cantons. In support of 
your idea you will ask for a map of Bes- 
cheselles, and contrive that he thinks he 
is having his own way entirely. You will 
visit first the Commune of Areines, then 
of Aze, then Marc illy.” 

“Areines,” repeated Catenae, like an 
echo ; “ Aze, Marcilly.” 

Mascarot leaned over the lawyer and 
touched his shoulder lightly. 

“Note well the order,” he said; “the 
order I indicate. All depends on this.” 

“ I have written it I Look.” 

The agent nodded his approbation. 

“ When you set out,” he continued, 
“ you would naturally ask for a guide.” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


223 


course, we should require such a 
person.” 

"‘Here, Catenae, I am obliged to leave 
something to chance, I can not do other- 
wise. But there are ninety-nine chances 
to one that the hotel-keeper will designate 
a man by the name of Fregot, whom he 
employs as a commissioner. Still, it may 
be that his choice will fall on another. In 
that case you must in some way get pos- 
session of our man,” 

But what am I to say to him? ” 

“ His role is designated to him with 
more care than yours is ; he understands 
it fully.” 

‘‘These preliminaries settled,” resumed 
Mascarot, you will on Monday morning 
begin ^mur investigations in the Commune 
of Areines, under the guidance of Fregot. 
Leave all the responsibility to Perpignan ; 
but be sure the Due is with you. Ask 
the inhabitants a series of questions which 
you will previously prepare. ‘ My friends, 
we are looking for a child. There are ten 
thousand francs offered as a reward to 
whoever will put us on the right track. 
It was in 1856, about the last of August, 
that he must have been in these parts, as 
he then ran away from the hospital at 
Vendome. Some one of you may have 
sheltered him.’ ” 

The lawyer stopped Mascarot. 

“ Wait a moment.” he said; “ I can find 
nothing better than your own words, I will 
write them down.” 

And he proceeded so to do. 

“On Monday,” resumed the agent, 
“ you will receive discouraging answers. 
You will have the same on Tuesday, and 
on the next three days ; but on Saturday 
be prepared for a great surprise. On that 
day Fregot will take you to a large farm, 
very much isolated, on the shores of a 
lake. This farm is cultivated by a man 
named Lorgelin, his wife and two sons. 

“These good people will be at table; 
they will ask you to take some refresh- 
nient, and you will accept. But at the 
first words you utter, you will see their 
faces change. The farmer’s wife will turn 
pale, and she will exclaim : ‘ Holy Virgin I 
these gentlemen are surely speaking of 
our poor Sans-Pere.’ ” 

Since he began to disclose his plan, 
Mascarot seemed to have grown taller, 
and his face, usually so quiet and re- 
strained, was filled with energy and light. 

His mode of explanation was so clear, 
his gestures were so full of authority, that 
his very voice carried to the minds of his 
hearers the convictions which animated 
himself. 

He spoke of problematic events as cer- 
tain to happen, and described them with 
such strange lucidity, and with such mer- 
ciless and logical reasoning, that they 
seemed to be absolutely real. 

“The farmer’s wife will say this?” 
said Catenae, in surprise. 


“Just this, and nothing else. Then the 
husband will explain that he gave the 
name of Sans-Pere to a poor little fellow 
that they found shivering in a ditch by 
the roadside, and took home and com- 
forted. 

“ He will say this was early in Septem- 
ber, 1856. You wish to read your descrip- 
tion, but he closes your mouth by giving 
his, which you will find to correspond pre- 
cisely with yours. Then Lorgelin will 
sing the praises of this child; how the 
farm seemed like another place while he 
was there; so that he never had the 
courage to take him back to the Hospital 
at Vendome. And you will hear all the 
family join in his eulogy, Sans-Pere was 
so merry and willing. At thirteen he 
could write like a notary — and then they 
will show you some of his writing in an 
old account book. 

“Finally, Mother Lorgelin, with tears 
in her eyes, will tell you this petted child 
was an ingrate; and on the following 
September, in 1857 that is to say, he left 
the family who adopted him. 

“ Yes, he abandoned them to go with 
some mountebanks. You will be touched 
by the regrets of these good people. 
Lorgelin will not conceal from you that 
he tried to catch Sans-Pere. In conclu- 
sion, they will show you the clothes left 
behind him by the lad.” 

Catenae had held his breath for the 
denouement, and was much disappointed. 

“ I confess I am puzzled to see what we 
have gained when that story of the Lorge- 
lins is completed.” 

Mascarot raised his head with that elo- 
quent gesture which signifies “ patience I ” 

“Let me finish,” he said. “In such a 
case you would not know what to do ; but 
Perpignan will not hesitate one half second. 
He will tell you that he has the end of the 
thread, that the clew must be carefully 
followed up.” 

“ I think you esteem Perpignan too 
highly.” 

“Not so. Each man has his trade. 
Besides if he wanders off the scent, it is 
for you to bring him back — delicately, 
you understand. His first movements will 
be to take you to the mayor’s office in the 
village of Aze, in which township is his 
farm. There you will ask for the register 
of licenses ; and then you will turn to the 
year 1857, You will discover that in the 
month of September, 1857, there passed 
through Aze, and remained there for a 
night, on their way from Versailles, a 
troupe of travelling artists composed of 
nine persons, with two carriages and five 
horses, under the direction of a certain 
Vigoureux, called the ‘ Grasshopper.’ ” 

Cactenac's pencil flew over the paper. 

“Softly! softly!” he said; “I cannot 
follow you.” 

After a pause of a few minutes, the 
agent continued : 


224 


THE SLAVES OF FAB IS. 


“ An attentive examination of the reg- 
ister will prove to you that no other trav- 
elling troupe passed through Aze that 
month. Therefore it is clear that it must 
be the Grasshopper that little Sans-Pere 
followed ; and then you will read the de- 
scription of this same Grasshopper : 

“ ‘ ViGOUREUX.— Born at LaBourgonce 
(Vosgez) ; age, forty-seven ; height, six 
feet two; eyes, small, gray, and near- 
sighted; complexion, dark. Third finger 
of the left hand cut off above the first 
joint. ’ 

If with these particulars, you take 
any other mountebank for him, you cer- 
tainly must be very stupid.” 

“ I should never find him, though,” mut- 
tered Catenae. 

But you have Perpignan, whose trade 
it is. You will see him bristling with im- 
portance, and overjoyed at what he has 
learned at the mayor's office. He will say 
to you loftily, that the investigations at 
Vendome are completed and that it is 
advisable to return to Paris at once. 

‘"You will make no objections. You will 
allow your noble client to reward Fregot 
and Lorgelin but you will take care not to 
leave him behind you. T presume he will 
be in a hurry to reach Paris. When you 
reach Paris, the wise Perpignan will take 
you at once to the Rue de Jerusalem, where 
Vigoureux must certainly have his papers 
like all other traveling artists. The police 
are very avaricious and keep a firm hold 
on all the documents they possess, but 
the magic name of the Due de Champdoce 
will open all the boxes. Finally, you will 
be informed that the artist Vigoureux, 
was, in 1864, condemned to imprisonment 
for disorderly conduct; and that now he 
is^ still under surveillance, and keeps a 
wine-shop at the corner of the Rue Du- 
pleux ” 

“Stop a moment!” said the attorney; 
“ let me take down his address.” 

"'When you go to the Rue Dupleux, you 
will recognize Vigoureux — the man whose 
finger was cut off. He will admit that the 
little rascal followed him, and that he was 
in his troupe for ten months. He was, he 
will say, a good boy enough, but proud as 
a peacock, and as lazy as a lizard, and was 
intimate with an old Alsatian named Fritz, 
who was the chief of the orchestra. The 
boy and the old man were so happy in each 
other’s society, that one fine day they went 
off together. Necessarily you will ask 
what has become of this Fritz, and Vig- 
oureux will overwhelm you with insults ; 
but you will threaten him with punishment 
for carrying off a minor ; he will become as 
mild as a suckling dove. A week must 
not elapse before Vigoureux will tell you 
that he has at last discovered Fritz, and 
that you can see him at the Hospital Saint 
Magloire.” 

It was with absolute surprise that they 


I listened to these investigations, which 
would lead one to another in such a simple 
fashion, but which disclosed such a sur- 
prising knowledge of the resources of civi- 
lization. 

“Fritz,” resumed Mascarot, “is a cun- 
ning old wretch.” 

“ You will find at Saint Magloire an old 
man, tottering and blear eyed. 

“Tell the Due de Champdoce that he 
must look out, and not pin his faith upon 
him. 

“ This Alsatian will tell you, with a 
Strasbourg voice and intonation, of all his 
sacrifices for his dear boy. He will tell 
you that he went without h’is tobacco and 
without his schnapps to pay for the music 
lessons which he insisted on Sans-Pere 
taking. 

“He will say that he had determined 
that he should be admitted to the conser^ 
vatoire — for he had recognized the boy’s 
surprising ability, and he cherished the 
hope of seeing him a great m.usician some 
day, like Von Weber or Mozart. 

“ I am persuaded that these crocodile, 
tears will melt your n ble client. He will 
see his son rising above the trammels of 
poverty all unaided. He will recognize 
this energy as indicating the characteristics 
of the Champdoce family. 

“ On the strength of that solitary state- 
ment, he is ready to accept the young 
man.” 

To describe the sensations of Mascarot 
were impossible. 

For three-quarters of an hour Catenae 
labored to decipher this spectacled sphinx, 
but he had not made the smallest advance. 
When would Mascarot open his lips and 
speak out? 

"" Let us get on,” said the lawyer, impa- 
tiently, “ all you are telling me now I shall 
find out later, from the facts themselves.” 

Mascarot rejoined: “If your penetra- 
tion requires no further explanations from 
me, you will allow me, I trust, to continue 
them for the benefit of our young friend, 
Paul Violaine. The Alsatian will move 
you to compassion, when he confides to 
you his disappointment over the boy’s de- 
sertion, and his subsequent prosperity in 
the Rue d ’Arras. 

“ You will listen with patience, if you 
please, to old Fritz as long as he chooses 
to grumble, all the more because you will 
detect in his complaints the rancor of a 
disappointed speculator. He will confess 
to you, moreover, that his very bread 
comes from that ‘ ungrateful fellow.’ 

“The Due, of course, will leave behind 
him some testimonial of his joy, and you 
will hasten to the Rue d’ Arras as fast as 
your fine horses will carry you. 

“ Then the proprietor of the hotel will 
tell you, that four years ago he got rid of 
this artist, the only one who ever dared to 
establish himself there. But with a little 
adroitness, assisted by twenty francs or 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS, 


225 


so, you will obtain the name and address 
of one of the music-master's former pupils 
— Madame Grandorge — a widow in the 
Rue Saint Louis. 

This woman who is still handsome, 
will tell you, with a blush, that she is ig- 
norant of the present address of her 
teacher, but that formerly he resided at 
57 Rue de la Harpe. 

From Rue de la Harpe you will be sent 
to the Rue Jacob, and thence to Rue Mont- 
martre at the corner of the Rue Joquelit.” 

Mascarot here stopped to draw a long 
breath, and laughed with tiiat silent laugh 
which announces the success of some cap- 
ital joke. 

Be comforted, friend Catenae,” he 
said; you have nearly reached the end 
of your pilgrimage. The concierge in the 
Rue Montmartre, Mother Bregot, who is 
the most obliging woman in the world, 
will take much pleasure in explaining to 
you that the artist has still his bachelor 
apartment under that roof, but that he 
lives there no longer, ‘ For he has been 
lucky,’ she will add, ‘ and I am glad of it. 
He married last month the daughter of a 
rich banker in our street. This young 
lady, Mademoiselle Martin Regal, fell in 
love with him ! ’ ” 

Catenae should have foreseen what was 
coming, but he uttered an exclamation of 
surprise. 

'“Upon my word.” 

“ Yes, precisely,” said Mascarot, with 
modest triumph. The Due de Champ- 
dbee will drag you off to our excellent 
friend, Martin Regal, and you will there 
find our young protege, and the happy 
husband of the pretty Flavia.” 

He straightened himself, arrayed his 
spectacles, and turning toward Catenae : 

‘‘ Now, my dear Counsellor-at-Law, 
show yourself to be liberal-minded and 
amiable by saluting politely Paul Qontran, 
Marquis de Champdoce.” 

This denouement Hortebise, of course, 
had foreseen. He knew the play, as he 
had been one of its co-laborateurs, and was 
as thrilled as a dramatist assisting at the 
first rehearsal. 

Bravo ! ” he cried, clapping his hands, 
“bravo! My dear Baptiston, you have 
outdone yourself ! ” 

Paul, warned and prepared as he had 
been, sank on a chair, his head swimming 
and his breath gone. 

“Yes,” exclaimed Mascarot, in a clear, 
ringing voice, “ I accept your eulogy 
without false modesty. VVe have no rea- 
son to fear even that grain of sand which 
sometimes interferes with the working of 
the best machinery. 

“Who, then, is our most valuable tool? 
Perpignan, of course. And this vain fool 
will serve us without knowing it. 

“ Can the Due have a suspicion after 
these investigations? It is impossible ! 

“ But to remove the faintest shadow of 


doubt, I have an additional plan. I will 
make him go back on his own track. He 
himself shall take Paul to all these various 
points, and at all he will receive additional 
confirmation. Paul — Regal's son-in-law, 
Flavia's husband — will be recognized in 
Rue Montmarte, Rue Jacob, and Rue de 
la Harpe. He will be joyously welcomed 
in Rue d’ Arras Saint Victor. Fritz will 
throw himself into the arms of '• the un- 
grateful fellow.’ Vigoureux will remind 
him of his marvelous "performances on the 
trapeze. The Lorgelins will press their 
dear Sans-Pere to their hearts I And this 
will be so, Catenae, because this scent 
that you will follow has been created by 
myself — because all these people, from 
Bregot back to the Lorgelins, are my 
slaves who dare not have any other will 
than mine. 

Catenae rose slowly and solemnly. “I 
admire, Baptiston, your patience and your 
ingenuity ; only I am going, with one 
word, to throw down the edifice of your 
hopes. 

Catenae might be a coward, he might be 
also a traitor, but he was none the less a 
clear-sighted counsellor. Consequently 
Hortebise shivered as he heard these words ; 
but Mascarot’s smile lost none of its tri- 
umph. 

Speak on,” he said to the lawyer. 

“Very well, then, Baptiston — old com- 
rade — you will not overreach and deceive 
the Due ” 

Mascarot smiled pityingly. 

“Are you sure,” he said, “that I wish 
to deceive him? You have not been frank 
with me, why should I be honest with 
you? Am I in the habit of confiding - in 
those whom I cannot trust. Does Perpig- 
nan suspect the role he is to play? Why 
may it not have suited me to keep from 
you the fact that Paul is really the cliild 
whom you seek? ” 

Mascarot spoke so seriously, and what 
he said was so singular, that Catenae stood 
with mouth and eyes wide open. His 
conscience was by no means clear. 

“ And why,” he asked himself, “ should 
his associates not betray him? ” 

His mind quickly sounded all probabili- 
ties; but in vain did he examine them. 
He could not detect in all these combina- 
tions any possible danger for himself. 

“I wish most sincerely,” he answered, 
regaining in some degree his self-posses- 
sion, “that Paul is all you imply — but 
why so many precautions? Only, maik 
my words, the Due has an infallible 
means of preventing or of detecting rattier 

— any imposition. What can you expect? 

— it is always so. The most trivial cir- 
cumstance is sufficient to upset the most 
sagacious plans — to render sterile the 
finest inspirations of genius.” 

The agent interrupted his associate : 

“Paul is the son of the Due de Champ- 
doce,” he said gravely. 


226 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS. 


What did this mean? Catenae felt that 
he was being trifled with, and he was of- 
fended. 

“As you please,” he answered; “but 
you will allow me, I trust, to convince my- 
self of this truth? ” 

The lawyer went to Paul, and with a 
certain eagerness, said : 

“ Have the goodness, sir, to take off* your 
coat.” 

Paul took off his coat and placed it on 
the back of a chair. 

“Now,” added Catenae, “roll up the 
right sleeve of your shirt — higher still — 
to the shoulder.” 

Hardly had the young man obeyed, and 
hardly had the lawyer glanced at the arm, 
than he turned to his associates, and said : 

“ No, it is not he ! ” 

To his infinite astonishment, Mascarot 
and the worthy Hortebise burst into a 
shout of laughter. 

“ No,” he persisted, “ no, this is not the 
abandoned child of the Due de Champdoce, 
and the Due will recognize this truth bet- 
ter than I. You laugh; but it is because 
you do not know ” 

“ Enough ! ” interrupted the agent ; and 
turning to the doctor, he said : 

“ Explain to our most loyal friend that 
we know many things.” 

The doctor approached, with the half- 
serious, half-laughing, altogether equivo- 
cal air with which he always orated to his 
patients on the merits and advantages of 
homeopathy. 

“You,” he said to Catenae, as he took 
Paul’s hand, “ are certain that this youth 
is not he whom we affirm him to be, merely 
because he has not certain marks? They 
will be there, however, on the day that 
Paul is presented to the Due, and legible 
enough to satisfy even Saint Thomas.” 

“ What the deuce do you mean? ” 

“ Let me explain in my own fashion, if 
you please. If Paul, in his childhood, had 
received on his shoulder a burn from boil- 
ing water, which removed the skin and oc- 
casioned a running sore, he would have to- 
day a large scar, whose nature and pecu- 
liar form would denote its origin.” 

Catenae nodded. 

“ You have described them accurately,” 
lie said. 

“ Now, then, listen. I am going to take 
Paul home with me. I shall take him into 
my private office. There he will lie down. 
I shall give him ether, poor boy, for I do 
not wish him to suffer. Baptiston will 
help me. When Paul is asleep, I shall un- 
cover his body and apply to his skin a bit 
of flannel, wet in a liquid, according to a 
formula which is my own secret. I am 
not a fool, as possibly you have discovered 
ere this. In one of my drawers is a piece 
of flannel artistically cut by myself to rep- 
resent exactly the capricious contour of a 
scar, resulting from a burn, and a few 
scattered fragments will do the rest. 


When this blistering bandage has done 
its work, which will be within ten minutes, 
I shall take it away and dress the sore with 
a secret preparation. Then I shall wake 
Paul and go to dinner.” 

B. Mascarot rubbed his hands. 

“ But you have not taken into calcula- 
tion the fact that time is needed to give a 
scar certain appearances ” 

“ Let me speak,” interrupted the doctor. 
“If it were only time we needed — three 
months, six months, a year even — we 
would naturally enough postpone our de- 
nouement until then. But I, Hortebise, as- 
sure you that I will show you in two 
months — thanks to a discovery of my 
own — a scar that will be entirely satisfac- 
tory, not possibly to a fellow practitioner, 
but enough so for a man like the Due.” 

Before him blazed the twelve millions, 
and his faded eyes glittered with unwonted 
fire. 

“ May the devil fly away with all preju- 
dices and scruples I” he exclaimed. “If 
we lose, we, at least, have played for high 
stakes. My friends, count on old Catenae, 
he is yours, body and soul. You are wise 
and I but a fool ! ” 

This time the doctor and Mascarot ex- 
changed a look of triumph. 

“Of course, however, we shall go 
shares,” continued the lawyer. “I come 
in, it is true, toward the end ; but my work 
is delicate and important — in fact, you can 
do nothing without me.” 

“ You will have your share,” answered 
the agent, evasively. 

“ One word more,” said the lawyer. 
“ Are you sure that the Due has no other 
assurances?” 

“ Remember, the Due has never even 
seen the infant, and it was carried away 
before the Duchess even asked for it.” 

“ But Jean saw it. Jean is still living. 
He is eighty-seven and very infirm, but as 
soon as anything arises of interest to the 
Champdoce family — to which he has given 
up his whole life — his intelligence re- 
vives .'” 

“ Well! And what then?” 

“ Jean, you know, opposed the substi- 
tution of another infant with all his 
strength. Is it not possible that he may 
not have foreseen just this emergency?” 

The agent had become very grave. 

“ I have thought of that,” he said ; “ but 
what can be done? ” 

“ I will ascertain,” exclaimed Catenae. 

Jean has entire confidence in me, and I 
will question him.” 

The cold, dispassionate lawyer had dis- 
appeared, and the zealous eagerness had 
taken its place common to those who, 
newly admitted to an enterprise, desire to 
make themselves immediately useful. 

“ That is settled, then, for the present,” 
he continued. “But who can be certain 
that no one will recognize Paul?” 

“ I can be sure of that, for I know how 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS. 


227 


entirely his poverty isolated him from all 
but a certain woman by the name of Rose, 
whom I took good care to send to Saint 
Lazare. It was against her that you in- 
duced Gandelu, the builder, to file a com- 
plaint. At one time I was a little anxious, 
as I discovered that Paul had a patron, 
whom I did not know. But this patron, 
or protector, has proved to be the Count 
de Mussidan, the murderer of his father — 
for Paul is the son of Montlouis.” 

‘‘The conclusion is clear, then, that 
there is nothing to fear there,” interposed 
the doctor. 

“No, nothing. And now, while you. 
Catenae, do your part, I shall hasten Paul’s 
marriage to Plavia Regal. But my cares 
here will not prevent my attending to an- 
other operation, and before a month, Henri 
de Croisenois will have organized his 
company and will be the husband of 
Sabine de Mussidan.” 

“ It would be wise to go to dinner, I 
think,” said the doctor, and turning to the 
protdg6 of the association, he added : 

“ Come on, Paul.” 

But Paul did not move, and then only 
did the three men perceive that the poor 
boy had fainted. They were obliged to 
bathe his head with cold water some time 
before he recovered his consciousness. 

“ Well ! well ! ” said the doctor, “ can it 
be that the idea of a little operation, which 
you will not even feel, has put you into 
this state? ” 

Paul shook his head sadly. 

“ It is not that,” he said. 

“What then ! ” 

“ Simply,” he answered, with a shiver, 
“that there exists some one — I know 
him — I know where he lives ” 

‘- Who? What? ” they asked. 

“I know him, I tell you — the son of 
the Due de Champdoce ! ” 

“Let us see,” said Mascarot, who was 
the first to come to his senses. “ What do 
you mean? Explain yourself.” 

“ Gentlemen, what you have just told 
me enl^htened me, and this is what made 
me so ill. I know a young man, who is 
twenty-three, who was left at the Found- 
ling Hospital of Vendome, and who ran 
away at the age of twelve years and a half, 
and who has on his arm and shoulder just 
such a scar as you .described. It came from 
a burn when he was apprenticed to a cur- 
rier.” 

“ And where is this young man? ” asked 
the agent, quickly. “What does he do? 
What is his name?” 

“ He is a sculptor. His name is Andre, 
and he lives ” 

A honible oath from Mascarot inter- 
rupted him. 

“This is the third time,” he exclaimed 
in a fury, “ that this miserable fellow has 
crossed our path; but this shall be the 
last, I swear I ” 

Catenae and Hortebise were deadly pale. 


“ What will you do?” they stammered. 

I shall do nothing,” he said quietly. 
“ Only, you know, this Andre is an orna- 
mental plasterer, and he is often obliged 
to ascend dizzy heights. Have you never 
heard that people of that kind hold their 
lives by the slenderest of threads? ” 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

When Mascarot spoke of suppressing 
the man who compromised his projects, 
with as much ease as if it was a question 
of snuffing out a candle, he was not aware 
of one singular circumstance that compli- 
cated his task. 

Andre was forewarned, and this warn- 
ing dated from the day when he had re- 
ceived from Sabine that despairing letter, 
in which she told him she was about to 
marry — that she was compelled to choose 
between him and the honor of her family. 

It was strengthened, moreover that eve- 
ning, when, after a long conference with 
Monsieur de Breulh-Faverlay, and Vicoui- 
tesse de Bois d’Ardon, they had all come 
to the conclusion that the Comte and 
Comtesse de Mussidan were the victims of 
some abominable conspiracy, of which 
Henri de Croisenois was the author. He 
had no idea on what side the peril lay, but 
he felt vaguely that it hung over his head. 

He stood ready to defend himself, there- 
fore. It was not only his life that was in 
danger — it was Sabine, his love and his 
happiness. 

Monsieur de Breulh-Faverlay had 
strengthened this distrust, for he had 
too high an opinion of Andre to conceal 
his apprehensions. 

“ I would wager mj?- fortune,” he said, 
“ that we are face to face with some black- 
mailing operations. And the worst thing 
about it really is, that we must work for 
ourselves — that we must not call in the 
assistance of the police. In the first 
place, we have no positive proof to offer, 
and the police do not move a finger in sur- 
mises. In the next place, we should ren- 
der a sorry service to those we pre- 
tend to save, if we merely awaken the at- 
tention of the law. Who can say with 
what terrible secret some wretch may be 
armed against Monsieur and Madame de 
Mussidan? It is quite within the bounds 
of probability that they would join forces 
with their oppressors against us.” 

“ The first virtue we should cultivate” 
resumed De Breuih, “ is prudence. Re- 
member that you no longer have the right 
at night to turn a dark corner in the street 
quic&y — it would be a very simple ope- 
ration to put a knife through your back.” 

The result of this conversation was, 
that Andre and De Breuih would cease for 
the present to see each other. 

They felt convinced that they were 
watched, and that their intimaev could 


228 


THE SLAVES OF FAB IS. 


not fail to intimidate De Croisenois, whom 
of course, it was their object to lull into 
security with the rest of their concealed 
enemies. 

They decided, therefore, that they 
would attach tliemselves, each in his own 
sphere, to Henri de Croisenois, and that 
every evening they should meet, to com- 
municate their impressions and discoveries, 
in a little cafe on the Champs Elysees, 
near the house on which Andre was at 
work. 

His resolution was in no way daunted, 
but the first recklessness had passed away. 
He was a born diplomatist, and fully real- 
ized that it is only by cunning that the 
cunning are distanced. 

What must he do? His engagements 
with Monsieur Gandelu must be kept first. 
How could he superintend his men there 
and watch De Croisenois at the same time? 

He must have money, and he was 
strangely unwilling to borrow from his 
new friend. Besides, were he to give up 
his work, questions would naturally arise, 
and suspicions would follow. 

Monsieur Gandelu himself could recon- 
cile all these contradictions, and Andre, 
remembering the kindness of the old man, 
decided that the best thing he could do 
was to confide in him. He, therefore,went 
to his house the next morning, just as the 
clock was striking nine. 

Great, therefore, was Andre's surprise 
when he saw young Moi sieur Gandelu in 
the court-yard. 

He was the same Gaston de Gandelu — 
the adorer of Rose — but it was easy to see 
that some extraordinary event had occurred 
which had taken the spring out of his life. 

The very way in which "he was smoking 
his cigar showed that he had given himself 
over to bitter thoughts — that he had fallen 
into a state of disgust for all things — and 
was weary of life. 

Gaston looked up at that moment, 
‘‘ Hallo ! he cried, here is my artist. 
Bet you ten louis that you have come to 
ask a favor of my father.” 

You are right. Is he at home? ” My 
beloved papa is sulking — he has locked 
himself in, and refuses to see me.” 

You are in jest, of course? 

“ I, in jest! not in the least. Papa is a 
tyrant, and I think the whole thing ridicu- 
lous ; or, as Lezneur says, supremely rid- 
iculous I ” 

As the grooms could hear, the young 
man had sense enough to draw !kndre 
aside. 

“ And you know,” he said, ‘‘ that my 
father has put me on short allo»\ance. 
He swears that he will put an advertise- 
ment into the paper that he will pay no 
debts of my contracting. But I can't 
think he will do it after all. for it would 

ruin me entirely . You don’t happen 

to have ten thousand francs to lend me, 
have you?” he suddenly asked the young 


sculptor. ‘‘ If you have, I will give you 
twenty thousand in return, when I come 
of age.” 

‘‘I must say, sir ” began Andre. 

“Pshaw!” he exclaimed; “say nothing 
— I understand. You are — an artist! If 
you had ten thousand francs you would 
not be here. But I must have that 
amount, nevertheless ; I gave certain notes 
to Verminet. Do you know Verminet? ” 

“ Not in the least.” 

“Where on earth do you come from? 
He is at the head of a Mutual Loan So- 
ciety, my dear fellow. The only thing 
that troubles me is, that to facilitate mat- 
ters I used the name of another person.” 

“ But that is forgery, man ! '’ he cried. 

“Not at all — because I intend to pay; 
besides I had to have the money for Van 
Klopen. You know Van Klopen, I sup- 
pose. No? Well, that is the man to dress 
a woman. I ordered three costumes ol 
him for Gora. But after all, papa is to 
blame for everything — why did he drive 
me to despair? ” 

“ Yes,” he repeated, “ papa drove me to 
this. He did not content himself with 
abusing me, but he just took hold of a 
poor innocent, defenceless woman, who 
never did him any harm — it is cowardly 
and contemptible. Now Gora ” 

“ Gora,” repeated Andre, to whom this 
name recalled nothing. 

“Yes, Gora — you remember her — you 
came to take pot luck with her one day.” 

“ Ah, yes — you mean Rose? ” 

“ Precisely; but you know I do not like 
any one to call her by that name. Well, 
then, papa has gone perfectly wild about 
her. Bet you twenty louis jmu don’t 
know what he did ! He filed a complaint 
against her for leading a minor astray. 
Truth ! As if I were a fellow that could 
be led by any one ! But all the same, they 
arrested her and she is in prison at Saint 
Lazare.” 

This heart-breaking idea brought tears 
to his eyes. 

“Poor Gora!” he said, with a moan. 
“ I never have cared much about women, 
but this one pleased me. What style she 
had ! Her hairdresser told me that never 
in his life had he seen such hair. And 
she is at Saint Lazare! When the men 
came to take her away, it was of me she 
instantly thought. She cried out : ‘‘ The 
poor fellow will kill himself, I am certain?” 
The cook told me, and said too, that her 
mistress was in such grief that she actu- 
ally raised blood! Think of that! And 
she is at Saint Lazare ! I went to see if I 
could speak to her, but it was no use.” 

And here the boy began to sob. 

“ Courage, sir, courage!” said Andre 
kindly. ' 

“ Yes — to be sure — and the day after I 
am twenty-one I intend to marry her. 
You will see ; and in the meantime, I do 
not consider my father altogether to blame. 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


229 


He has been advised by his lawyer, a man 
named Catenae. Do you know him? No 

— well, to-morrow I intend to call him out 

— I have selected my seconds. By the 
way, will you be one? I can easily throw 
over one of the others ! 

really know nothing of such mat- 
ters.” 

^‘Then you will not: do, of course. I 
must have seconds whose looks and man- 
ner will frighten him a little.” 

In that case ” 

‘•I know what you would say. You 
mean that I had best find some military 
man. But, after all, the affair is simple 
enough ; I am insulted, and choose pistols 
at ten paces. If he is afraid, then he will 
make papa give up all his nonsense.” 

In any other mood Andre would have 
been amused by the follies of this boy; 
but now, he merely asked himself how he 
could best get rid of him. Just at this 
moment a servant came out of the house. 

Monsieur,” said this man, my mas- 
ter has seen you from his window, and he 
begs you to go up to him.” 

In one moment,” answered Andre eag- 
erly ; and extending his hand to Gaston, he 
began to say a few words of encourage- 
ment and consolation. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

When Andre, at last disembarrassed of 
Gaston, appeared before Monsieur Gandelu 
. he was terrified by the great change he 
saw in him. 

He had been weeping, and had evidently 
wiped his eyes with his cuff, for there were 
dark streaks on his cheeks; but when 
Andre appeared the poor man's face 
brightened, and he half rose from his 
chair : 

Ah ! it is you! ” he said, in a melan- 
choly voice. It does me good to see you ; 
I am thankful for the good wind that blew 
you in this direction.” 

‘‘It is not a good wind,” answered 
Andre, as he shook his head. 

Then Gandelu noticed the young man’s 
gravity and the lines on his brow* 

‘‘ What is the matter, Andre? ” 

“ I am threatened with a great misfor- 
tune, sir.” 

‘•You! what are you saying ? ” 

•‘ Only the truth, sir. And the conse- 
quences of this misfortune may be to me 
despair and death ! ” 

He stopped a moment, and looked fix- 
edly at Andre. 

“ I am your friend, my boy, and I wish 
much to be of use to you.” 

‘•I came, sir, full of confidence, to ask 
you to do me a kindness.” 

“ Ah! you thought of me, then. Thank 
you ; you make me quite happy ; give me 
your hand, Andre. I like to feel a loyal. 


manly hand in mine ; it warms my poor 
lonely heart. Speak ! ” 

Tbe young artist gathered his thoughts 
together. 

“It is the secret of my life, sir, that I 
am about to confide to you,” he said, with 
some solemnity. 

Monsieur Gandelu did not speak, but 
with his clenched fist struck himself on 
his breast, and this gesture guaranteed his 
discretion better than any oath would have 
done. 

Andre no longer hesitated, but suppres- 
sing only the names, told the simple story 
of his love, his ambition, his hopes, and 
ended with a clear and comprehensible 
statement of the actual situation. 

“What can I do?” asked Monsieur 
Gandelu. 

“ Permit me, sir,” said Andre, •‘ to give 
the business with which you have en- 
trusted me to one of my friends, while I 
retain the responsibility and direction of 
the affair in appearance, but in reality am 
only one of the workmen. The arrange- 
ment will give me my liberty to a certain 
extent, while I am, at the same time, earn- 
ing that something which is of vast im- 
portance to me. ” 

“ And is that what you call a service? ” 

“ Yes, sir ; a service and a great favor. ” 

He rose hastily and opened an iron safe 
built in one of the corners of the room. 
From this safe he pulled out a bundle of 
bank notes, which he laid on the table be- 
fore Andre. 

The kindness of this man, who forgot 
his own troubles to relieve another, 
touched Andre to the heart. 

“ But I do not need money, sir, ” he be- 
gan. 

Gandelu imposed silence with a gesture. 

“ Take these twenty thousand francs,” 
he said, “ and that will encourage me to 
tell you why I asked you to come up to 
me. ” 

To refuse would have been most ungra- 
cious. and Andre accepted the kindness. 
The old man went back to his chair, where 
he sat in gloomy silence for some min- 
utes. 

“ My dear Andre, ” he said, at last, in 
a strange, hoarse voice, “ you saw some- 
thing the other day of my sorrows. My 
son is a miserable fellow, whom I have 
ceased to respect or esteem. ” 

The young artist had taken it for granted 
that it was on a matter relative to Gaston 
that he had been summoned. 

“ Your son is very much in error, but 
remember his youth. ” 

Gandelu smiled sadly. 

“ My son is old, ” he answered — “ old 
in vice. I have refiected and I have 
judged. Yesterday he threatened me with 
his intention of committing suicide. Pre- 
posterous nonsense ! Up to this time, con- 
tinued the old man, “I have been fool- 
ishly weak — it is too late now to be se- 


230 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


vere. The boy is madly in love with a 
miserable woman named Rose, whom I 
have had incarcerated. I have determined 
to let her loose once more, and also I am 
ready to pay his debts. It is a weakness, 

I admit. But what can I do, I am his 
father; and while I do not respect him, I 
love him still. He has broken my heart ; 
but the pieces are his, to do with as he 
pleases. ” 

Andre did not speak — he was appalled 
at the calm decision with which his friend 
spoke. 

I do not deceive myself, ” continued 
Gandelu. ‘‘My son is ruined. I can but 
look on and wait for the end. If this 
Rose be not absolutely perverse, her in- 
fluence over him may be utilized for his 
good. But who will undertake these ne- 
gotiations? I confess, Andre, my hopes 
have rested on you. ” 

To consent to interfere in this matter 
was on Andre's part an act of absolute 
heroism, for he needed all his intelligence 
and energy for his own afiairs. 

To forget Sabine for a moment seemed 
to him an absolute crime, at the same time 
he recognized that it was his duty to do 
what he could to aid this generous man, 
who had just placed in his hands the one 
element of success which he previously 
lacked. 

He drew a chair, therefore, to the side 
of Monsieur Gandelu, and the two entered 
into a discussion as to the course they 
should take. 

It was finally decided that Andre should 
have carte blanche^ and that the old con- 
tractor should, to all appearance, stand 
firm in the course he had declared, and 
only be persuaded to gentler measures by 
slow degrees, and through Andre's inter- 
cession. 

The result justified their hopes. Gaston 
was more crushed and more utterly de- 
spairing than Andre even had supposed, 
and it was in an agony of suspense that he 
waited in the courtyard for the return of 
his ambassador. As soon as he saw him 
appear on the threshold of the mansion, 
he hurried to meet him. 

“Well,” he said, breathlessly. 

“Your father,” answered Andre, “is 
naturally very much incensed against 
you; nevertheless, I hope to induce him 
to grant some concessions.” 

'• Will he set Gora at liberty? ” 

“Perhaps so; but your father asks 
something more than promises. He must 
have guarantees.” 

These words considerably moderated 
Gaston’s joy. 

“ Guarantees ! ” he answered sulkily. 
“ Is not my word enough? What guaran- 
tees can my father ask? ” 

“Ah! that I cannot tell you, you must 
find them for yourself. I will propose 
them to him, and I am quite sure he will 
accept them.” 


Gaston looked at his companion in as- 
tonishment. 

“ Do you mean to say that you can 
make papa do anything you choose? ” 

“Not precisely; but you must see for 
yourself that I have a great deal of influ- 
ence over him. Do you wish a proof of 
this? I have obtained from him the 
money to pay those notes.” 

“ Verminet's do you mean? ” 

“I suppose so; I speak of those to 
which you were mad enough to forge a 
signature.” 

Silly as the boy was, and unconscious, 
to a certain extent, of the crime he had 
committed, he realized it sufficiently to 
feel at times a keen anxiety as to how he 
was to escape from certain vague conse- 
quences — which he sometimes fancied 
even his father’s immense wealth might 
not be sufficiently powerful to free him. 

“ Give it to me I ” he cried — “ give me 
the money ! ” 

But Andre shook his head. 

‘•Pardon me,” he said, “the money 
does not leave my hands until I receive 
the notes. My orders on this point are 
distinct; but the sooner we settle this 
affair and take up the notes the better.” 

•‘ That is abominable! ” he said. “Much 
obliged! Papa is a cunning old fox, as 
Augustin said in the play the other night ; 
but I suppose he must have his own way, 
so come" on. Let me get my coat on in- 
stead of this dressing-jacket, and I will go 
with you.” 

He rushed off, and in ten minutes was 
back again, as neat as a pin and as gay as 
a lark. 

‘^We will walk,” he said, as he took 
Andre’s arm. “We must go to the Rue 
Sainte Anne.” 

It was in that street that Verminet had 
his oflice. The office of the “ Mutual Loan 
Society,” of which he was the sole di- 
rector. 

The house he had selected and adorned 
with his sign was far from attractive in its 
appearance. 

The Mutual Loan Society, as the pros- 
pectus called it, was founded with the sole 
end and aim of procuring credit for those 
who had lost it, and money for those who 
never had any. 

Verminet's manner of operation, which 
he called his financial system, was very 
simple, however. 

A tradesman, on the eve of failure, 
would come to him. Verminet consoled 
him, and made him sign notes for the sum 
of which he stood in need, giving him, in 
exchange for these notes, others, signed 
by another tradesman equally ruined, and 
quite as near failure as the first. 

And then he pocketed his commission of 
two per cent, on these two transactions ! 

But how did Verminet procure his 
clients? 

The answer is not difficult to obtain 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS, 


231 


when one realized that an unhappy mer- 
chant. pursued by the phantom of failure, 
is ready to do anything ; he seems to lose 
his head — he clutches at a signature as a 
drowning man would at a blade of grass. 

But these operations were by no means 
all that were carried on in that office. 

Its most important and most regular 
revenues were drawn from sources even 
infinitely less respectable. It was a shop, 
in fact, for the sale of those notes which 
are the terror and despair of bankers. 
Signatures were forged there, and imag- 
inary names were affixed to commercial 
papers duly stamped. 

It was said that Verminet made money. 


CHAPTER L. 

Gifted with a quick intelligence and 
vivid perceptions, the sign of the Mutual 
Loan Society and the exterior of the house 
told much of the tru.h to Andre. 

I don’t like this,’’ he said. 

Not its appearance, of course,” ans- 
wered Gaston, in a wise tone. but it has 
its merits I do assure you. It has to do 
with affairs you would never suspect. Ah 1 
Verminet knows a thing or two.” 

This was precisely Andre’s idea also, for 
of course, there could be but one opinion 
in regard to a person who was capable of 
taking advantage of the folly and ignor- 
ance of a simpleton like Gaston, to induce 
him to utter forged notes. 

» He said nothing however, but quietly 
followed young Gandelu, who displayed 
strange familiarity with the interior of the 
house. 

They went through a long corridor, 
dark and ill-smelling, crossed a court- 
yard that was as damp as a well, and 
climbed a staircase with the aid of a 
sticky hand-rail, for the steps were as 
slippery as ice. 

On the second story, before a door on 
which were innumerable placards, Gaston 
stopped. 

They entered a large room, with a high 
ceiling. The paper on the walls was torn 
and moldy in spots. The room was di- 
vided by a light railing, behind which 
several clerks were eating their breakfast. 

The heat of the stove, the employes, and 
the food together, affected the air to that 
degree that a person coming in from the 
fresh outside atmosphere felt as if his 
throat were tickled with feathers. 

“ Where is Monsieur Verminet I ” asked 
Gaston, with an air of authority. 

“Busy,” answered one of the clerks, 
carelessly, with his mouth full. 

“Do not speak tome in that way! If 
Verminet is busy or not. go and tell him 
that I, Gaston de Gandelu, wish to see 
him.” 

The clerk was so impressed by these 
magnificent airs, that, without a word, he 


took the card and disappeared through a 
rear door. 

This was Gaston’s first victory. He 
glanced at Andre with a proud smile. 

In a moment the clerk reappeared. 

“ Monsieur Verminet is at this moment 
much occupied with a client — he begs 
you to excuse him, and wait a few minutes 
— he will receive you presently.” 

And anxious, probably, to establish him- 
self in the good graces of so elegant a 
creature as the youth before him, he 
added : 

“ My master is just now with the Mar- 
quis de Croisenois.” 

“ Think of that now ! ” cried Gaston. 
“ Bet you ten louis that the Marquis would 
be only too delighted to shake hands with 
me ! ” 

At this name Andre started, and his 
face fiushed. Croisenois ! The very man 
whom he loathed and hated, the wretch 
who, armed with some stolen secret, was 
constraining Sabine de Mussidan to marry 
him. It was the scoundrel whom Monsieur 
de Breulh-Faverlay, and Madame de Bois 
d’Ardon, and he himself had sworn to un- 
mask. 

He trembled with eagerness as he real- 
ized that one door separated him from this 
mortal en; my — that he should see him, 
that they should meet face to face, that 
their eyes would cross each other, that he 
should hear the voice of his enemy. So 
intense was his emotion, that it was with 
difficulty he concealed it. Fortunately, 
his companion was not paying the smallest 
attention to him. At the clerk’s invita- 
tion young Gandelu had taken a chair, 
which he tipped back on its two back legs, 
and with his legs crossed and his thumbs 
in the armholes of his vest, he enjoyed 
the admiration of the dreamy-looking 
clerks behind the railing. 

“You know this dear Marquis, I pre- 
sume? ” he said, in a voice loud enough to 
be heard by the clerks. 

Andre made some reply which Gaston 
accepted as a negative. 

“But you must have heard of him! 
Where in the world do you live, then? 
Henri de Croisenois is one of my best 
friends. He owes me to-day fifty louis 
that I won of him one night at Ernes- 
tine’s. ” 

He felt sure that he had judged Vermi- 
net justly, and if so, the relations of Crois- 
enois with this very shady personage was 
full of significance. Here was a wide 
field for Andre’s research. Now he be- 
held a light before him — he rushed to- 
ward it, and it seemed to him that at last 
he held the clew which was to guide him 
through the labyrinth of iniquity. 

As in that game where one person tries 
to find some intended object, and is guided 
by laughing voices, so did he hear within 
himself the words “ you burn ! ” 

He found, moreover, that this boy, whose 


232 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


mentor he had become, was closely allied 
to this Marquis. Why could he not learn 
something from him? 

'‘You are intimate, then, with the Mar- 
quis de Croisenois ! ” 

" Intimate ! I should rather say I was !” 
answered young Gandelu. “You will see 
presently whether I am' or not. I know 
all about him — all about his affair with a 
lady who costs him millions ! But hush ! 
that is a mystery.” 

The inner door opened and Verminet 
and the Marquis appeared. 

Henri de Croisenois wore a morning cos- 
tume very elegant and entirely a la mode^ 
but no less absurd than that of young 
Gandelu. He had a cigar in his mouth, 
and was mechanically striking his light- 
gray pantaloons with a light cane of Rus- 
sia leather with a gold head. 

At one glance, but a glance in which 
was concentrated all the keen intelligence 
of his brain, Andre saw Croisenois so 
vividly that he never forgot him, but could 
have drawn his portrait from memory 
twenty years later. 

Andre particularly noticed his eyes ; 
they were restless, with a latent look of 
terror, a half hunted expression, as of a 
man who liv ed in perpetual terror, and 
who knows that he has everything to 
fear. 

At a little distance, the Marquis, with 
his delicate, silky moustache, had a youth- 
ful air, but Andre saw that, in reality he 
looked older than his years. 

'Fhe gambling-table, the nights of de- 
bauch, the anxieties of a precarious exist- 
ence, had done their work, and had lined 
the brow, and faded the lips, and divested 
the reddened eyes of their lashes. 

Monsieur de Croisenois seemed in the 
gayest possible spirits, and it was in the 
most cheerful tone that he and Verminet 
finished the conversation they had begun. 

“It is then, thoroughly understood,” 
said the Marquis, “ that I am to have 
nothing more to do with a matter which 
really concerns neither you nor me? ” 

“Precisely,” answered his companion. 

“That is settled, then, but remember 
what I say, that any mistake you may 
make in this other matter will be attended 
with the most serious consequences. 

This caution seemed to suggest some 
idea to Verminet, for he said something in 
a low voice to his client, and they both 
laughed. 

Gaston was considerably^ disturbed at 
not being directly recognized, and pres- 
ently went forward with a profound bow 
and a magnificent wave of the hand. 

If the Marquis was overjoyed at meet- 
ing Gandelu, it was certain that none of 
his pleasure appeared. He seemed sur- 
prised, but not agreeably so — he frowned 
in fact — but he extended his gloved hand 
with a careless : 

“ Glad to see you.” 


But this was all, and with small cere- 
mony he turned his back on Gaston, and 
continued to speak to Verminet. 

“All the difficulties are conquered,” he 
said, and, therefore, there is not a mo- 
ment to lose. You must see this banker, 
Martin Regal, and Mascarot to-day.” 

Andre started. Were these people ac- 
complices of Croisenois? He saw accom- 
plices everywhere now, to be sure ! But 
the names sank deep into his memory. 

“ Tantaine was here this morning,” 
answered Verminet, “and he wished me 
to see his master at four this afternoon — 
Van Klopen will be there too. Shall I 
speak to him for your fair friend? ” 

The Marquis shrugged his shoulders 
with a laugh. 

“ Upon my word ! ” he said, “ I had for- 
gotten her nearly. There will be a great 
commotion soon — she will want silks and 
laces, velvets and dresses. Speak to Van 
Klopen by all means — but make no prom- 
ises. Remember that I do not care a sou 
for Sarah's whims, now.” 

“ I understand,” said Verminet. “ But 
be cautious. Don’t have any quarrel — 
keep things as smooth as possible.” 

“Certainly — to be sure,” answered 
Croisenois, and with a “ good morning ” 
to the director, he passed through the 
outer room with a slight bow to Gaston, 
but without deigning to notice Andre with 
a glance. 

When Andre and Gaston had entered 
the private room, Verminet took his seat 
in his leather covered arm-chair. 

Verminet was better than his office. In 
the first place, he was clean ; in the next 
his dress did credit to his tailor. 

Was he young or old? Who could say? 
His years were no more apparent than 
those of a five franc piece. He was plump 
and fresh, pink and white ; wore English 
whiskers, while his faded eyes were as 
expressionless as a cellar window. 

Young Gandelu was also in a hurry. 

“ One word, if you please — as Geoffrey 
said in the play the other night — one 
word. You lent me some money last 
week ” 

“ Precisely. Do you want more? ” 

“ Ko. I wish, on the contrary, to take 
up my notes.” 

Verminet’s face clouded. 

“ The first payment is not due until the 
fifteenth,” he said. 

“ That is no matter, I have the money 
now ; and then, too, you understand, that 
of course — well, that is to say, I want 
them now.” 

“ Impossible.’’ 

“ And why impossible?” 

“ Negotiated! ” 

The poor boy could not believe his ears 
— no, could not imagine that this state- 
ment was serious. He was disconcerted, 
startled and disturbed. 

“But,” he said, “I signed those notes on 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


233 


condition that they should never go out of 
your hands — it was so understood by 
both of us. You promised 

‘‘ I do not say anything to the contraiy. 
But to make a promise and to keep it are 
two very diflfere.nt things. I was com- 
pelled — "needed money — some one ready 
— sold the note ” 

Andre was not surprised, he had antici- 
pated something of that kind, and seeing 
that Gaston had lost his head utterlj^, 
spoke : 

‘‘Excuse me, sir,” he said, to the la- 
conic director, “ but it seems to me that 
certain circumstances — peculiar circum- 
stances — should have made you respect 
your agreement.” 

Verminet made a stiff bow, and, instead 
of replying : 

“Honor of speaking to whom?” he 
asked. 

Andre, more and more suspicious, did 
not choose to give his name. 

“ I am a friend, sir, of Monsieur de Gan- 
delu.” 

“ In his confidence? ” 

“Entirely so; you lent him, I think, 
ten thousand francs ” 

“ Excuse me ; five thousand.” 

Andre turned in astonishment to his 
companion, who grew crimson. 

“What does this mean?” asked the 
artist. 

“Can’t you see? I said ten thousand, 
because I needed the difference for Gora.” 

“Ah!” answered Andre, lifting his 
eyebrows slightly. “Then, Monsieur Ver- 
minet, it was five thousand francs you 
gave Monsieur Gandelu. That was natu- 
ral enough. But not so natural, in my 
opinion, was your inducing him to forge 
a signature.” 

“ I! ” answered Verminet — “ I did not 
know it was a forgery ! ” 

This impudent denial aroused poor Gas- 
ton from the stupor into which he had 
fallen. 

“ That is too much, ” he cried, “ al- 
together too much I Did you not yourself 
tell me, Verminet, that for your own per- 
sonal safety you must insist on another 
name in addition to mine? Did you not 
yourself hand me a letter, and say to me, 
“‘Imitate this signature — it is that of 
Martin Regal, the banker, in the Rue Mont- 
matre?’” 

“False accusation, absence of proofs,” 
he said at last. Society incapable of any 
act punishable hy law.” 

“ And yet, sir,” said Andre, “you had 
no hesitation in putting these notes into 
circulation. Have you calculated the 
frightful consequences of this breach of 
faith ? What would happen if that forged 
signature was presented to Monsieur Mar- 
tin Regal?” 

“Unlikely Gandelu, maker; Regal, 

endorser. Notes are presented always to 
the maker. ” 


The trap was clear, but the wherefore 
was not so evident. 

“ Then,” said the artist coldly, “ we have 
but one thing to do, we must pursue these 
notes and take them up. ” 

“Right!” 

“ But to do this, you must first tell us 
to whom you disposed of them. ” 
Verminet waved his hand carelessly. 

“ Don’t know — forgotten.” 

“Then, sir, ” he said, in that low, con- 
centrated voice which tells the story of 
rage restrained with the utmost difficulty, 
“let me suggest that it would be greatly 
to your interest if you were to make an 

energetic appeal to your memory ” 

“ Threats !” 

“And if this appeal be unsuccessful the 
consequences will be very serious.” 

That the young painter was in bitter 
earnest it was easy to see. Verminet rose, 
but Andre was too quick for him. 

“No!” said Andre, throwing himself 
against the door, “ you will not leave this 
room until you do what I require. ” 

For two minutes these two men stood 
motionless, looking at each other, Ver- 
minet was green with fear, and Andre very 
pale. 

“If this villain lifts a finger, ” thought 
Andre, quite beside himself, “ I will pitch 
him out of the window. ” 

“ This fellow is a positive Hercules, ” 
thought Verminet ; “and he looks as if 
he were capable of anything. ” 

Seeing that he had best yield, the direc- 
tor took from a drav/er a voluminous 
ledger, which he turned over hastily. 

But Andre saw that the volume was 
upiside down. 

“There it is! Notes for five thousand 
francs — Gandelu and Regal — transferred 
to Van Klopen — Tailleur des DamesP 
Andre was silent. 

Now whj^ had Verminet proposed 
Regal's signature to Gaston, as the one he 
should imitate? and why had he passed 
the notes over to Van Klopen? Was it 
mere accident that prompted the selections 
of these names? No! he felt sure that 
some secret tie existed between these 
three men and the Marquis de Croisenois. 

“ Is this all? ” asked the director of the 
Mutual Loan Society. 

“ Has Van Klopen the notes ? ” said Gas- 
ton. 

“ Don't know.” 

“Never mind!” said Andre, he will 
tell us where they are.” 

They went out, and as soon as they were 
in the "street the young artist put his arm 
within that of his companion, and hurried 
him along — in the direction of the Rue 
de Grammont. 

“Ido not wish this Verminet to have 
time to warn Van Klopen of our inten- 
tions. I choose to fall upon him like a 
bullet.” 


234 


TEE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


CHAPTER LI. 

Had Andre been better informed, he 
would have known that no one fell like a 
bullet on Van Klopen. 

Entrenched in the innermost sanctuary 
of his inspirations and his oracles, this 
fashionable tyrant surrounded himself 
with all the precautions with which an 
Asiatic despot entrenches his harem. 

The women, poor angels, would be in 
terror of their lives when they were with 
this potentate but for this waiting-room — 
and then his custom would be ruined. 
That was why Andre and Gaston were 
met in the vestibule by two tall lacqueys, 
whose liveries, glittering with gold, seemed 
an indication of the prosperity of the 
mansion. 

‘‘ Monsieur Van Klopen is engaged,” 
they said. 

“But our business is of the first impor- 
tance.” urged Andre. 

“ My master is working.” 

Prayers, threats, and even one hundred 
francs were offered and rejected. 

Andre saw that he was about to be 
check-mated, and was tempted to take the 
lacqueys by their collars and dash them 
aside ; but he had already repented of his 
anger at Verminet’s. He then made up 
his mind to submission, and entered the 
famous salon, called by Van Klopen “ his 
Purgatory.” 

The lacqueys had told the truth. Sev- 
eral women of the highest fashion were 
waiting the good pleasure of this glass of 
fashion and mold of form. 

These ladies all turned as the two young 
men entered the room — all but one, at 
least, and she sat in a window, idly look- 
ing into the street, and drumming lightly 
on the glass with her pretty fingers. 
This lady it was, however, who first at- 
tracted Andre’s attention, and he recog- 
nized her instantly to be Madame de Bois 
d’Ardon. 

“Is it possible?” he said to himself. 
“ Can the Vicomtesse have come here 
again? Then De Breulh was mistaken.” 

Young Gandelu felt that five pair of 
eyes were watching him, and he wished 
to select the most graceful posture. 
After a brief moment of amazement, 
Andre became disgusted. 

“ I wish she would look around. I 
think she would be ashamed,” he thought. 
“ I will speak to her.” 

He rose from his chair and without 
thinking how frightfully he would com- 
promise the lady he crossed the salon and 
stood at her side. 

But she was absorbed in something that 
was going on in the street and did not 
turn. 

“ Madame,” he said. 

She started — and when she looked 
around and recognized Andre, she uttered 
a little cry. 


“ Heavens ! Is it you ! ” 

“ Yes, it is I — here.” 

“ Mj^ presence here astonishes you,” she 
said; “and you think I have little mem- 
ory, and less pride.” 

Andre did not answer — his silence was 
a sufficient reply. 

“ Let me tell you. then,” continued the 
Vicomtesse, ‘"you do me great injustice. 
If I am here, it is because De Breulh this 
ver}^ morning told me that in the interest 
of your projects. I should forgive Van Klo- 
pen and come here as heretofore. You 
see. Monsieur Andre, it is never safe to 
judge by appearances — a woman above 
all things.” 

He said in an earnest tone : “Will you 
ever forgive me, madame?” 

With a little rapid gesture which he 
alone could see the lady interrupted him. 

“Take care,” said this gesture, “you 
are being looked at.” 

Again she turned her eyes to the street, 
and, with a slight signal, bade him do the 
same. Their faces at least, were con- 
cealed from observation. 

De Breulh,’' continued the lady, “ has 
heard much of Monsieur de Croisenois, 
and not one thing to his credit. Quite 
enough, indeed, to justify a father in re- 
fusing his hand for a daughter; but not 
enough in this case, as it is clear to me 
that De Mussidan has a knife at his throat. 
We must rescue from the past some one 
infamous act of this man’s, which will 
force him to withdraw of himself.” 

“ I shall find it,” muttered Andre, be- 
tween his teeth. 

“But, my dear sir, there is no time to 
lose. According to our agreement, I am 
altogether charming to her ; he thinks I 
am entirely devoted to his interests, and 
to-morrow I have agreed to present him 
at the Hotel de Mussidan. The count and 
countess have agreed to receive him.” 

Andre started". 

“ I understood at once,” resumed the 
lady, ‘"as soon as I saw them, that you 
were quite right in your opinion; first, 
Mussidan and his wife, who have always 
lived on the most wretched terms, are 
almost tender toward each other, as if 
they felt that in union they could best 
resist danger. Then, their faces are care- 
worn and anxious — they watch their 
daughter with the saddest, dreariest eyes. 
I think that they regard her as their sal- 
vation, and yet they deplore the sacrifice !’’ 

“ And she? ” 

“She is sublime — yes, sublime! She 
accepts the sacrifice, to which she has 
made up her mind, fully and entirely, 
without restrictions and without a mur- 
mur. Her devotion is great and most ad- 
mirable, but still more admirable is the 
fact that she conceals from her parents 
the extent and the horror of her sacrifice. 
Koblegirl! She is calm and grave — but 
that she has always been. She is a little 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


235 


thinner and a trifle paler, and her fore- 
head, when I kissed her, was so hot that 
it fairly burned my lips. Except this, 
however, nothing betrayed her sufferings. 
31odeste told me, moreover, that when 
night came she was utterly exhausted, 
and the poor woman wept as she said that 
her poor mistress was killing herself I ” 

Great tears dropped slowly from An- 
dre’s eyes. 

What can I do,” he said, to deserve 
such a woman?” 

But a door opened, and Andre and the 
Vicomtesse turned upon the sound. 

It was Van Klopen, who, according to 
his custom after each consultation cried 
out: 

Well ! whose turn is it next ? ” 

But when he saw Gaston his face 
changed, and it was with the most amiable 
smile that he went toward him, waving 
away the patient lady whose turn it was, 
and who protested against the injustice. 

Ah ! ” he said, in a gay, good-natured 
tone, ‘-you have come, I presume. Mon- 
sieur Gandelu, to order some surprise for 
that exquisite creature, Gora de Chante- 
mille?” 

‘‘Not just now,” he answered; “Gora 
is not quite well.” 

But Andre, who had arranged the little 
story which he intended to lay before the 
mighty Van Klopen, was in too great 
haste to spend his time in useless chatter. 

‘‘We came,” he said, hastily, “on a 
matter of importance. My friend. Mon- 
sieur Gaston Gandelu, is about to leave 
Paris for some months, and he is desirous, 
before leaving, to withdraw from circula- 
tion all his notes, for his father would be 
excessively displeased should he learn 
that he has made any at all. ” 

“I have had them,” he said, slowly. 
“Yes, I am certain I had them once. 
Five notes of a thousand francs each, 
signed Gandelu, and endorsed by Martin 
Regal. I received them from the Mutual 
Loan Society ; but I have them no 
longer. ” 

“ Is that so? ” murmured Gaston, faintly. 

“Yes, I sent them to my furnishers at 
Saint Etienne — Rollon, Vrac & Co.” 

Van Klopen was an adroit rascal; but 
being born at Rotterdam he was lacking 
in a certain finesse of detail. The proof 
of this being that, annoyed by Andre’s 
fixed gaze, he added : 

“ If you do not believe me I can show 
you the acknowledgement of these gen- 
tlemen. ” 

“It is not necessary, sir,” answered 
Andre ; “ your word is suflicient. ” 

“ And I give it to you, sir ; nevertheless 
I should prefer to show you the letter. ” 

‘‘That will do, sir, ” said Andre quietly, 
notin the least duped by this comedy. 
“Do not take any more trouble. The 
notes are at Saint Etienne. I am sorry ; 
we will wait until they come due, how- 


ever. Monsieur Gandelu will not disin- 
herit his son for that. I have the honor 
to wish you a very good-morning. ” 

Andre dragged Gaston away, who act- 
ually wished to consult Van Klopen on 
the costume which would be most chic for 
Gora to wear when she left Saint Lazare. 

When they were in the street, and a 
block from the dressmaker’s, Andre 
stopped and wrote down the names of 
Van Klopen’s manufacturers — Rollon, 
Vrac & Co. 

Gaston was quite comfortable. 

“ I think, ” he said, “ that Van Klopen 
is no fool. He knows me. As Philippe 
says in the play, I am a good fellow.” 

“ Where do you think your notes are?” 
“ At Saint Etienne, of course. ” 

The obstinate confidence of young Gan- 
delu elicited from Andre a gesture of im 
patient commiseration. 

“ Listen to me, ” said Andre, “ and try, 
if you can, to realize the frightful posi 
tion in which you stand. ” 

“I am listening, my dear fellow; go 
on.” 


“ It was because Van Klopen refused to 
give you longer credit and it was in order 
to pay him that you applied to Verminet?” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ Then how do you explain the fact that 
this same man, who, on Monday, did not 
think your credit good enough to open an 
account with you, should on Wednesday, 
accept your notes from Verminet with the 
intention of sending them to his manufac- 
turers?” 

“ The deuce ! I never thought of that. 
It is queer. Does he mean to do me a bad 
turn? But which of them is it, Verminet 
or Van Klopen?” 

‘‘ It is clear that the two together have 
a charming little project of blackmailing 
you.’! 

This word was peculiarly offensive to 
the boy, and he exclaimed : 

“ Blackmail me ! Indeed they won’t. I 
know a trick worth two of that, and they 
won’t make much out of this boy.” 

Andre shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Then,” he said, “ have the goodness 
to state what you propose to say to Ver- 
minet, when, the day your notes are due, 
he comes to you and says: ‘ Give me one 
hundred thousand fi*ancs for these five 
bits of paper, or I take them to your 
father.’ ” 

“ I should say — well, upon my word, I 
do'n’t know what I should say.” 

“You could say nothing, for you would 
see that you had been imposed on in the 
most shameless manner. You would im- 
plore Verminet to wait, and he will wait 
if you agree to give him one hundred 
thousand francs the day you come of age.” 

“ A hundred thousand fiddle strings for 
all Verminet will get from me I That is 
my way, you see. If people treat me 
badly, I am apt to kick and upset their 


236 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


dish. Pay this fellow! Ko, not I. I 
know very well that there would be a tre- 
mendous row with papa, but Idl stand 
that sooner than be imposed on.” 

He was very indignant, but sincere as 
were his feelings, he found no other words 
to express them than this si iiig, which 
makes up the vocabulary of the clean and 
brilliant youths who are the delight of 
the boulevards. 

‘‘I think,” answered Andre, '‘that your 
father will forgive this — imprudence ; 
but that it will be harder for him to do so 
than it was to pardon you for sending a 
physician to count how many hours he 
had to live. He will pardon you because 
he is your father, and loves you. But 
Verminet, when he finds that you are not 
afraid of your father, will threaten you 
with an appeal to the courts.” 

The young man stood still. 

“ This is a very poor joke,” he gasped. 

“ It is no joke for in good, round French 
such a joke is called a forgery, and a for- 
gery means, first a trial in the courts, and 
then a prison.” 

Gaston turned pale, and shook like a 
leaf from head to foot. 

‘"A prison!” he stammered. “No, I 
do not believe you. But all the same — I 
have nothing in my hand — I pass.” 

He forgot he was on the boulevard, and 
he was talking in his shrill falsetto voice, 
and gesticulating furiously. 

"Poor papa! I might have made him 
very happy, tind I have been only a tor- 
ment to him ! Ah ! if I could only begin 
again ! But the play is made, and that is 
all there is to be said about it ! And at 
my age that is pretty bad, for I am not 
twenty. But a court-room ! No, I can’t 
stand that ! I much prefer a pistol ball. 
I am the son of an honest man ! ” 

Do you mean what you say?” asked 
Andre. 

'‘To be sure I do. I can be serious 
sometimes.” 

Do not let us despair yet a while,” 
said Andre. ‘' I think that we may be 
able to arrange this unfortunate afiair — 
only you cannot be too prudent. Keep 
yourself close, and by all means remem- 
ber that I have imperative need of you at 
almost any moment.” 

"Agreed! But look here, you must 
not forget Gora.” 

“ Do not be troubled; I will see her to- 
morrow. And now, good-bye for to-daj^ ; 
I have not one minute to lose,” and Andre 
rushed away. 

The reason for Andre’s excessive haste 
was that he had heard Verminet say to 
Croisenois ; "1 shall see Mascarot at four 
o’clock,” and he had taken it into his head 
that he would wait until he saw the direc- 
tor come out, and then follow him. 

In this way he hoped to get at Mascarot, 
whom he looked upon as an accomplice. 

He went through the Hue de Grammont 


like an arrow, and half-past three sounded 
from the clock of the Imperial Library 
when he reached the Eue Saint Anne. 

Just opposite the Mutual Loan Society 
was a wine shop. Andre entered and 
asked for two sous worth of bread, a por- 
tion of ham, and a pint of wine. 

Then, standing near the window he be- 
gan to eat, without taking his eyes from 
the window. He was somewhat anxious, 
for Verminet had said that he intended 
also going to the Bourse. Would he re- 
turn home after he had been there and 
before he went to see Mascarot? All de- 
pended on this. 

If he did, Andre would be able to carry 
out his plans ; if he did not, his hour of 
waiting was lost. 

It was not lost, however, for just as he 
finished his bread and ham he caught sight 
of Verminet coming out. He swallowed 
his wine and rushed after him. 


CH APTER LH. 

Only to see Verminet in the street was 
to receive the impression of a successful 
man — a capitalist — the fortunate mana- 
ger of a thriving and lucrative business. 

Andre had no difficulty in following him, 
although he was entirely new to the trade 
of a fileur^ which is a more difficult matter 
than is generally supposed, and which, like 
most things, has its recognized rules — its 
calculations — which simplify it wonder- 
fully. 

Instead, therefore, of taking the Rue 
Neuve des Petits Champs he gained the 
boulevard, and walked on slowly. Andre, 
who was not more than fifteen steps be- 
hind, kept his man well in sight, and wond- 
ered at the many persons who knew this 
surprising financier. 

Somewhat disconcerted, he said to him- 
self: '‘Am I mistaken! One sees crook- 
edly when one looks through the prism of 
passion. This man ma}^ not be what I 
suppose. Have I taken the chimeras of 
my imagination for positive evidence?” 

Meanwhile, Verminet, having reached 
the Boulevard Poissonniere, threw away 
his cigar, and changed his air and walk. 

When he had finally arrived almost at 
the end of the Rue Montorgruil, not ■ far 
from the Halles, he turned and disap- 
peared within a vast porte-oochere. 

Verminet had gone into the office of B. 
Mascarot, and this Mascarot simply kept 
an intelligence office for servants and em- 
ployes of both sexes. 

He determined nevertheless, to wait for 
Verminet ; and to give himself an air of 
doing something, he, without losing sight 
of the door of the intelligence office., 
crossed the street, and appeared to be ab- 
sorbed in watching three mechanics who 
were putting up sliding shutters to the 
shop-windows of a new building just op- 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


237 


posite. Fortunately, Andre was not 
obliged to wait long. In less than fifteen 
minutes he saw Verminet come out with 
:wo men. One, tall and thin, wore colored 
glasses — the other, stout, smiling, and 
ruddy ; had the air and bearing of a man 
of the world. 

Andre would have given half of the 
twenty thousand francs in his pockets 
could he have heard their conversation, or 
any portion of it, and he was executing an 
adroit manoeuver destined to bring him 
closer to the group, when, apparently 
within a few feet, were heard two sharp, 
shrill whistles. 

These whistles were so oddly modulated 
that they struck Andre, who saw also that 
he was not the only one to notice them. 
The tall, spectacled personage who was 
talking to Verminet started, and looked 
hastily around. 

Suddenly the three were separated. The 
one with the spectacles went into the 
house, Verminet and the distinguished 
looking person walked away together. 

Andre hesitated. Should he try and 
find out who these men were. He saw in 
the doorway near by a man with chest- 
nuts. Could he not find out something 
from him? 

‘‘No,” he said, “the man will always 
be there, while 1 shall never, perhaps, get 
hold of Verminet’s companions again. ” 

He followed these two then as quickly 
as possible. They did not go far ; they 
went through the dark passage of the 
Heine de Hongrie, and turning to the right 
into the Rue de Montmartre they entered 
a fine house. 

But how could he tell whom they were 
visiting? A man with any experience in 
that, sort of business would not have been 
embarrassed, but Andre was extremely so, 
and as he got nearer he saw at the end of 
the vestibule a sign, with these words: 
“Office on the first floor. ” 

This was a ray of light. 

“Ah!” he thought, “the banker lives 
here. ” 

He entered and questioned the concierge. 
Yes, he was right, this was the dwelling 
of the banker, Martin Regal. 

“Upon my word, ” he thought, “ I am 
in luck to-day. And now if my little 
chestnut-vender can only tell me who these 
two men are, I have done well. It is to 
be hoped that he has not gone. ” 

Not only was he still there, but he had 
two customers standing by the furnaces 
— two workmen in blouses and caps — 
who were disputing with so much eager- 
ness that they did not even notice Andre 
when he joined them. These men were 
bargaining about something, apparently. 

“ You needn’t talk that way,” said one. 

“ I have told your father just what I 
would do. You want my place, and my 
furnace. You can have them for two 
hundred and fifty francs.” 


“But my father won't give but two 
hundred francs.” 

“Then he need give nothing. Two 
hundred francs for a place li& mine! 
Why, I have made some days ten francs, 
and over — I give you my word, the word 
of Toto-Chupin.” 

Toto-Chupin! The name tickled An- 
dre's fancy. And it was to the one who 
bore it that he now addressed himself. 

“My friend,” he said, “you were here 
an hour ago. Did you happen to notice 
three gentlemen who came out of this 
house, who stood talking together a few 
minutes?” 

The youth turned, and examined from 
head to foot with the most abominably in- 
solent air, the person who ventured to 
interrupt them ; then in a brutal tone, re- 
plied : 

“ What is it to you Who they are? Mind 
your own business, and go your own 
way.” 

Andre had seen more than one specimen 
of the engaging class of which Toto-Chu- 
pin was a fair specimen. He knew their 
language and their ways. 

‘"Answer!” he said; “it will not burn 
your tongue, nor do you any harm.” 

“Well then; yes, I saw them. What, 
then?” 

“ What then? Why, I should like to 
know their names, if you happen to know 
them yourself.” 

I'oto-Chupin lifted his cap and rubbed 
his head, as if to stimulate his intellect, 
and while he set every one of his ugly 
yellow hairs on end, he examined Andre 
curiously. 

“ And if I do know these men, and 
should tell their names,” he said at last, 
“ what would you give me? ” 

“Ten sous.” 

The cheerful youth blew out his cheeks 
as much as possible, and then adminis- 
tered to them a resounding slap, as a su- 
perlative expression of contempt and 
irony. 

“Look out for your suspenders!” he 
exclaimed, with an air of supreme pity. 
“Ten sous! Upon my word! Shall I 
lend them to you? ” 

Andre smiled blandly. 

‘"Did you think I would offer you twenty 
thousand livres ? ” 

To his infinite surprise Toto burst out 
laughing. 

“1 have won!” he cried. “ I bet with 
myself that you were not a fool, and I 
have won. I owe myself a new hat.” 

And why do you think I am not a 
fool?” 

“ Because a fool would haye offered me 
fiye francs to begin with, and when I 
asked more, he would have advanced to 
ten — as many francs, as you did sous.” 

The painter smiled. 

“ But you were not to be caught,” coik 
tinued Toto. 


238 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


Here he stopped and frowned heavily, 
for he was in great perplexity. He knew 
these names, of course, but should he 
give them? He instinctively scented an 
enemy. It was not to chestnut-venders 
that well intentioned persons addressed 
themselves, usually, with such questions. 
To speak was, in all xjrobability to do 
harm, either to Mascarot, Beaumarchef, 
or to the sweet and gentle Tantaine. 

This last thought settled the point. 

‘‘Keep your ten sous,” said Toto; “I 
will tell you what you want to know 
merely because I, Toto-Chupin, have taken 
a fancy to you! The tall fellow was 
Mascarot, and the other, the stout one, is 
his friend Dr. Hortebise; as to the third 
— wait a minute until I think ” 

“ Oh, I know him, his name is Vermi- 
net.” 

‘‘Yes, that’s it!” 

Andre was so enchanted by Chupin that 
he drew from his pocket a five-franc piece, 
and tossed it on the cover of the furnace. 

“ Here ! Take this for your pains.” 

It was with the grimace of a monkey 
that the boy snatched the money. 

“ Thanks, my prince I ” Chupin said. 

He was about to add some jesting re- 
mark, when he glanced down the street ; 
his face suddenly changed, and became 
very serious, almost anxious, and he riv- 
eted his eyes on the young painter with a 
most singular expression. 

“What is it?” said Andre, much sur- 
prised. 

“ Nothing,” answered Toto — “ oh, noth- 
ing at all ! Only, as you seem to be a nice 
sort of fellow, and not a bit proud, I 
should advise you to look out. 

‘ ‘ Look out ? And for what ? ” 

“I mean — be careful — I don’t know 
just what I do mean. It is only an idea 
that has come into my head. But that is 
enough — I don’t mean to say another 
word. ” 

Andre concealed his astonishment with 
infinite diflSculty. He perceived that this 
scamp knew many things which to him 
would be beyond all price, but he saw also 
that he did not mean to tell them, and 
that it would be utter folly to attempt to 
elicit one word. 

An empty fiacre passed, Andre hailed it, 
and ordered the coachman to drive to the 
Rondpoint on the Champs Elysees. 

If he did not give the name of the caf6 
where he was to meet his friend, it was 
that, in obedience to Toto’s counsel, he 
was careful — yes, extremely careful. 

He remembered those two odd whistles 
he had heard, and which made Mascarot 
start, and which apparently broke off the 
conference of the three men. He remem- 
bered that it was after a glance down the 
street that Toto-Chupin had become sud- 
denly serious and had given him that brief 
and careless warning. 

“Zounds!” he cried, suddenly en- 


lightened by the recollection of a story he 
had heard told not long before. “lam 
followed ! ” 

He lowered the glass in the front of the 
carriage, and pulled the coachman by the 
sleeve to attract his attention. 

When the man turned and leaned to- 
ward him, he said : 

“ Listen to me attentively, and don’t 
change your pace. First, I wish to pay 
you your five francs in advance. 

“ But ” 

“ Listen. Go as quickly as possible to 
the Rue de Matignon ; there you will turn 
round, and, as you turn, you will check 
your horses for one half minute. Then go 
on like the wind. When you are once in 
the Champs Elysees, you can go where 
you choose, for I shall not be inside.” 

The coachman gave a little chuckle. 

“Ah, ha I” he said, “I understand. 
You are followed, and you want to give 
them the slip?” 

“ Something like that, I confess.” 

“ Then listen to me. Look out when 
you jump, for I shall turn short, and don’t 
jump on the side next the sidewalk — the 
street is best. ” 

Andre left the carriage, and had time to 
turn into a dark alley before any one en- 
tered the street. 

But all in vain did the young painter, 
entrenched behind a door, listen and 
watch. 

After five minutes, which seemed end- 
less, nothing had appeared, neither spy 
nor carriage — nothing to justify his pre- 
cautions in the smallest degree. 

“Have I been absurdly cautious?” he 
thought. “ No, such coincidences cannot 
be accidental. ” 

More than fifteen minutes had elapsed 
and Andre decided to abandon his post and 
join Monsieur de Breulh. 

“For I am sure,” he said, “that he 
must be waiting ! ” 

And he was right — for as he approached 
the little cafe chosen for the rendezvous 
on the Champs Elysees, he recognized the 
coupe of Monsieur de Breulh-Paverlay, 
and near it that gentlemen himself smok- 
ing his cigar, who, turning at that mo- 
ment, caught sight of Andre. 

He advanced to meet the young painter 
with cordial greeting and extended hand. 

“For twenty minutes I have been wait- 
ing for you.” 

Andre began to excuse himself, but his 
friend stopped him. “Never mind,” he 
said; “I know, of course, that you had a 
most excellent reason. Only to tell you 
the honest truth I had become a little 
anxious.” 

‘ ‘ Anxious ? And why ? ” 

“ Do you not remember what I said the 
other evening? Henri de Croisenois is a 
villain of the deepest dye.” 

Andre did not speak — and his friend put 
his arm familiarly through hi a. 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


239 


Let us walk,” he said, ‘‘ that is better 
than to establish ourselves in the caf6. 
I believe this man capable of anything and 
everything. He has in prospect a large 
inheritance — that of his brother George ; 
but this will be entirely devoured by his 
creditors. A man driven to extremities 
like these is not to be trifled with.” 

“lam not afraid of him ” 

“ But I am, for your sake, friend Andre ! 
I am somewhat relieved, however, by the 
idea that he does not know you.” 

The young painter shook his head. 

“N'ot only does he know me,” he an- 
swered, “ but I am inclined to believe that 
he suspects my designs.” 

“ Impossible ! ” he exclaimed. 

“ Nevertheless, to-day, I have been fol- 
lowed. I have no actual proof of what I 
say, but I am certain of it.” 

Andre narrated all the incidents of that 
day. When he had finished, Monsieur de 
Bfeulh-Faverlay said, in a very serious 
voice : 

“ Yes, you are watched, and every step 
you take will be known to these people. 
At this very moment, eyes are upon us.” 

He looked around as he spoke, but it 
was dusk and he could see nothing. 

“We will give your spies a little exer- 
cise, and if we dine together, they will be 
at a loss to know where. 

The coachman was asleep on the box of 
the coup6. His master woke him, and 
gave his orders in a whisper. 

“ Come ! ” he said to his companion, and 
they took their seats in the carriage. 

“ What do you think of this expedient? ” 
said Monsieur de Breulh, gayly. We shall 
keep this pace up for an hour. We will 
stop at the corner of the Chausse d’Antin, 
and then be free. Those who follow us 
to-night will have good eyes.” 

All came to pass as he said, only, just as 
De Breulh jumped out,' he saw a shadow 
slip from the back of the carriage and rush 
among the crowd on the boulevard. 

“By jove!” he cried, “that was a man. 
I thought I was leading the spy ofi* the 
track, and I was only giving him a drive I ” 

And then, to be certain, he took ofi* his 
gloves and felt of the springs and axles. 

“Touch it — the iron is still warm.” 

The young painter was silent, but all 
was explained. While he jumped from his 
fiacre the man who followed him was car- 
ried away upon it. 

This adventure saddened the dinner, and 
a little after ten Andre excused himself 
and retired. 


CHAPTER LHI. 

The Vicomtesse de Bois d’Ardon had 
described exactly the situation at the 
Hotel de Mussidan; when in Van Klopen’s 
salon she said to Andre : 

“ Misfortune and sorrow have brought 


the Comte and Comtesse near together, 
and Sabine has decided that it is her duty 
to preserve the honor of the family. 
Sabine is sublime in her self-abnegation.” 

Unfortunately, this change* did not take 
place as early as it should have done. 
After the step taken by the smiling Dr. 
Hortebise and when she was sure that he 
knew the contents of all her letters, Di- 
ane’s first impulse was not to go to her 
husband, but to Norbert, who was, in 
reality, as much compromised by this cor- 
respondence as herself. 

Her first letter elicited no reply. 

She wrote a second ; and, finally, a third 
in which, without explaining herself en- 
tirely, she said enough to make the Due 
understand the persecution to which she 
was a victim, and the peril which threat- 
ened Sabine. 

This third letter was brought back to 
her by a footman, open and not in any 
envelope. 

The Due had read it, of course. Under- 
neath he had written : 

“The weapons you intended to use 
against me are turned against yourself. 
God is just.” 

It seemed to her a prophecy — a voice 
from Heaven, telling of evil days to come 
— saying that the hour of her chastise- 
ment was near at hand, and that she must 
now expiate the crimes of her life. 

Poor fool I She implored God to efface 
the Past — as if God himself were power- 
ful enough to make of that which had 
already come to pass a nullity. 

Then she realized that all was lost, and 
that she must finally go to her husband, 
if she did not desire that copies of the 
letters taken from her should be sent to 
him. 

It was one evening, in the small salon 
which was next to Sabine’s room, the 
Comtesse de Mussidan confessed to her 
husband the peril which menaced her. 

Alas! she was compelled to speak of 
those fatal letters and of their contents. 
She did it with that marvelous dexterity 
of women who avoid lies and yet do not 
tell the truth. 

But she could in no way gloss over the 
share she had had in the death of the old 
Due de Champdoce, and in the mysterious 
disappearance of George de Croisenois. 

The count was stui^fied. 

He called up the^recollections of his 
youth, and he remembered Diane as he 
had first seen her at Laurebourg, where 
he had learned to love her. What purity 
sat on her brow, yet she had instigated a 
parricide. 

Another circumstance struck De Mussi- 
dan. Up to this time he had been per- 
suaded that Diane’s relations with Kor- 
bert de Champdoce had been more than 
questionable, and that after her marriage 
even they had continued. 


240 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


Now the Comtesse denied all this, she 
denied it absolutely, at the very moment 
when she raised the veil that covered her 
life. 

He had felt that Sabine was not his 
child, and now was condemned to re- 
proach himself for his indifference to her. 

He did not speak, but when the Com- 
tesse had finished he rose and left the 
room, staggering like a drunken man. 

The Comte and Comtesse believed their 
daughter to be asleep, but they were mis- 
taken. They were watching over her, for 
they feared what she might say in her de- 
lirium, and had sent the faithful Modeste 
to rest, while they sat in the small salon, 
with the door open into Sabine’s room, 
where they could hear the slightest move- 
ment she could make, and where they 
could instantly hurry to her side. 

Yes, they had been guilty of precisely 
this imprudence ; they talked in the salon 
with the door open, and Sabine had heard 
the terrible words, — ruin, dishonor, in- 
famj’', despair. 

At first she did not understand. Were 
not these voices a part of her delirious 
fancies. She made an effort to shake off 
this nightmare. 

But soon she knew that the whispers 
were grim realities, and she lay on her 
bed, shuddering with terror. 

Many words escaped her, but the con- 
clusion was but too clear. The crimes of 
her mother were to be divulged and pun- 
ished if she, Sabine, did not consent to 
marry this man who was unknown to her — 
the Marquis de Croisenois. 

The agony she knew could not be of 
long duration. To tear from her heart her 
love for Andre was to tear her very life up 
by the roots. She said she would have the 
courage to live until her sacrifice was con- 
summated and her parents safe, after that 
she would have a right to accept the repose 
and forgetfulness of the grave. But her 
flesh was weaker than her spirits. Her 
fever returned during the night, and a 
relapse imperiled her life again. 

Her youth and good constitution gained 
the victory, and when she recovered her 
resolution was in no degree weakened. 
Her first act was to write that letter to 
Andre which had sent the poor fellow 
nearly wild. Then, as she feared her 
father in his despair would take some des- 
perate step, she went to him and told him 
that she knew all. 

‘Y never loved Monsieur de Breulh,” 
she said, with a wan smile, ‘‘ and, there- 
fore, it will not be so great a sacrifice on 
my part.” 

Was the Comte de Mussidan duped by 
this generous falsehood? Certainly not ; 
but he did not dare brave the consequences 
of the murder of Montlouis, and still less 
the discovery of the secrets of the Duchess. 

Time was going on, however, and the 
wretches gave no sign of life. The doctor 


appeared no more. What did that silence 
mean? Sometimes the Comtesse even ven- 
tured to hope. 

Have they forgotten us ? ” she thought. 

No, they were not forgotten. 

The honorable Mascarot never lost sight 
for a moment of any of the pieces of his 
vast chessboard on which he played 
his last game, and it was with admirable 
precision and precisely at the right mo=r 
ment that he moved his pieces. 

All was arranged for the success of the 
Champdoce matter. All precautions were 
taken to avoid detection in the nefarious 
business of substituting Paul for the real 
son of the Due, and Mascarot had no time 
to turn his attention to the marriage of De 
Croisenois and Sabine. 

De Croisenois had also to be started with 
that famous company which was intended 
to mask the blackmailing practices of B. 
Mascarot and his associates. But first a 
decided step must be taken with Monsieur 
de Mussidan. 

Tantaine was despatched on this mis- 
sion, and any other person than that 
agreeable individual would have consid- 
ered it indispensable to make some little 
improvement in his dress — to clean his 
boots, possibly, and to brush the accumu- 
lation of dust from his coat. He disdained 
what he called nonsense, and declared that 
the coat did not make the man. He was 
once heard to declare that he was never 
the first to quit an article of clothing, and 
one easily believed him at the first glance. 

He clung to his rags as to his personal- 
ity. He said if he changed them he was 
not the same man, and should not know 
himself in new clothes. 

This, therefore, is the reason why the 
servants at the Hotel de Mussidan, on see- 
ing this dirty, shabby old man enter the 
vestibule, and ask to see the Comte or 
Comtesse, did not hesitate to reply that 
their master and mistress went out many 
years a^o. 

This jest in no way disconcerted the 
good man. Drawing from his pocket a 
card of B. Mascarot’ s, he implored these 
“ good gentlemen ” to take it up-stairs, 
saying that as soon as their master saw it 
he would send for him to come up. 

When De Mussidan read the name on the 
card he bore, he turned deadly pale, and 
snatched at his chair for support. 

Show this gentleman into the library, 
and tell him I will join him soon. 

Florestan left the room, and the Comte 
handed the card to his wife without a 
word ; but the Comtesse did not look at it. 

I know,” she gasped. 

“ Then,” said the Comte, ‘‘ you realize 
that pay-day has arrived. This name is 
the sign of the fatal hour.” 

The Comtesse threw herself at his feet. 
Pressing her lips to his hand that hung 
helplessly at his side, she kissed it ten- 
derly. 


THE SLAVES OF PABI8. 


241 


Pardon, Octave,” she murmured — 
“]iardm — I am a wretch — God is un- 
just. 1 have committed these crimes alone, 
and should bear my punishment alone. 
Why should others suffer with me and for 
me? ” 

Monsieur de Mussidan pushed her gently 
aside. He suffered so much, and yet the 
idea never occurred to him to reproach 
this woman, the wife of his bosom, for 
having made of his life one long agony. 

And Sabine I ” she resumed, must she, 
a Mussidan, marry one of these wretched 
scoundrels? ” 

Sabine was the only one of the three who 
was calm. She was suffering agony quite 
equal to that of her parents, and yet was 
innocent, but she had that heroism which 
is the outgrowth of duty, and her counte- 
nance was firm and lofty. 

‘‘ Ah! papa! ” she said, with a gayety 
that was heart-breaking under the circum- 
stance-, why despair? Who can say 
that Monsieur de Croisenois will not be a 
good husband?” 

The Comte turned on Sabine a look of 
the tenderest aftection and gratitude. 

Dear child ! ” he murmured — “ dear 
Sabine ! ” 

This example restored his self-posses- 
sion— he rose. 

‘‘Let us be resigned,” he said, “in ap- 
pearance, at all events. We have much to 
hope from time. Let us wait — at the 
door of the mayor’s ofiice rescue maj^ 
come! ” 

Monsieur de Mussidan went to the table, 
swallowed a large glass of water, and left 
the room, saying to himself : 

“ Courage, courage ! ” 


CHAPTER LIV. 

Florestan had conducted Tantaine to 
the superb library where B. Mascarot had 
been received, and to kill time he took a 
mental inventory of its contents. He felt 
of the texture of the heavy hangings ; he 
examined the costly bindings of the books 
— the magnificent bronzes on the consoles. 

“Ha! ha!” he murmured, as he tried 
the elasticity of the arm-chairs, we are 
very comfortable here, and when every- 
thing is arranged, I am not sure that I 
should not like a nest just like this one. I 
am quite sure that Flavia ” 

The door opened — the Comte appeared, 
calm and dignified, but very pale. 

Tantaine bowed to the very ground, 
pressing against his breast his shabby hat. 

“ Your most humble servant ^ — - ” he 
began. 

But the Comte had stopped on the 
threshold. 

‘‘Excuse me,” he said, “ was it you who 
sent me a card soliciting an interview? ” 

“True, I am not Mascarot; but I used 
that most respectable name, sir, because I 


knew that my own would convey no idea 
to you. My name is Tantaine, Adrien 
Tantaine, at your service, sir.” 

It was witii the greatest surprise that 
Monsieur de Mussidan looked at the shabby 
individual before him. His simple expres- 
sion and amiable smile invited confidence. 

“ But,^’ continued the old man, “ I have 
come on the same business, sir. I am bid- 
den to tell you that it must be finished as 
soon as possible.” 

The Comte shut the door and locked it. 
This man compelled him to feel still more 
sensibly the ignominy of his position. 

“1 understand,’' he said, “perfectly; 
but I do not understand why you came, 
and not the other, I mean the one whom I 
have seen before.” 

He meant to come, but at the last 
minute he declared he would not.” 

“Ah! ” 

“ Yes — he was afraid. Mascarot, you 
see, has much to lose ; while I ” 

He stopped, and holding out the tails of 
his coat, he turned arqund completely as if 
to show all the points of his costume. 

“ What I have on my back is all I have 
to lose,” he said, in a tone that made one 
shiver in spite of one’s self. 

“Then,?’ said the Comte, “I can treat 
with you.” 

Tantaine bowed with an air of modest 
virtue. 

“Yes, it is I, Monsieur le Comte, who 
hold the leaves torn from Monsieur de 
Clinchan’s journal ; and, also — why should 
I not say so — all the correspondence of 
the Corntesse, your wife. If, in the begin- 
ning, I divided the operation, it was be- 
cause I did not think it wise and prudent 
to put all my eggs in one basket. But 
now that you, sir, and madame are on 
good terms, we can, 1 think ” 

“Enough!” answered the Comte, un- 
able to conceal his disgust. “ Sit down ! ” 

“1 will be brief,” he said, sharply. 
“ Have you any intention, sir, of filing any 
complaint or making any charge against 
us?” 

“ I have already said I should do noth- 
ing of the kind.” 

“ We can transact our business, then?” 

“Yes — if ” 

The old man shrugged his shoulders. 

“ There are no ‘ifs ’ in the matter ! ” he 
said. “We dictate the conditions, which 
are rejected or accepted.” 

These words were uttered with such sin- 
gular impudence that the Comte’s face 
flushed, and he felt tempted to pitch the 
blackguard out of the window. But he 
had determined to keep his temper. 

“ Disclose your conditions,” he said, 
quickly. 

Tantaine pulled out a greasy portfolio, 
and from it drew a paper. 

“ These are our terms,” he said, slowly. 

“ The Comte de Mussidan promises the 
hand of Mademoiselle Sabine, his daugh- 


242 


THE SLAVES OF FAB IS, 


ter, to the Marquis de Croisenois ; he gives 
six hundred thousand francs dowry, and 
agrees that the marriage shall be solemn- 
ized as early as possible. 

To-morrow the Marquis de Croisenois 
will be officially presented at the Hotel de 
Mussidan, and will be well received. Four 
days later he will be invited to dinner. 

On the fifteenth day from that Monsieur 
de Mussidan will give a grand fete for the 
signing of the marriage contract. 

The leaves of the diary and the corres- 
pondence will be handed to Monsieur de 
Mussidan when the party leaves the may- 
or’s office.” 

The Comte sat with rigid lips and 
clenched hands listening to these atrocious 
conditions. 

‘•Very well,” he said, coldly ; “ but who 
will tell me that you will keep your en- 
gagements, and that the papers will be 
restored to me after all?” 

The clerk gave a glance of commisera- 
tion. 

“ Your own good sense ! ” he answered. 
“What more could we hope from you 
when we had your daughter and your for- 
tune ? ” 

The Comte did not speak at first, and for 
a few minutes walked up and down his 
library, studying his terrible interlocutor ; 
employing all his penetration to discover 
some weak spot in this armor of cynicism 
and audacity. 

Suddenly he spoke in the deliberate tone 
of a man who has made up his mind : 

“You have me,” he said; “I must ad- 
mit myself conquered. Exorbitant as are 
your conditions I accept them.” 

“That is the way to talk!” said Tan- 
taine, cheerfully. 

“ Then,” replied the Comte, in whose 
eyes there was a gleam of hope, “ why do 
you talk to me of giving my daughter to 
Monsieur de Croisenois? It is perfectly 
unnecessary. What you want is simply 
the six hundred thousand francs, is it not? 
Well, take them, and leave Sabine to me. 
[ offer you her entire dowry ” 

He checked himself, and waited for the 
result. He believed he had won the bat- 
tle, but he was mistaken. 

“ It would not be the same thing,” an- 
swered Tantaine. “We would not attain 
our end in this way.” 

“I can do more even. Grant me another 
month, and in that time I shall be able to 
add another million to the original sum.” 

But the old man was not moved by the 
magnitude of this offer. “I think,” he 
said, “ that it would be best to end this in- 
terview, which, I confess, is becoming 
somewhat irritating. You, sir, have agreed 
to accept the conditions; Monsieur de 
Croisenois will be welcomed to-morrow 

95 

The Comte replied with a gesture of as- 
sent, but he dared not trust himself to 
vjpeak. 


“ Then,” continued the old man, “ I will 
now retire. As you, sir, keep your en- 
gagements, so will we keep ours.” 

His hand was on the door, when the 
Comte stopped him. 

“ One word more,” he said, “ I can an- 
swer for myself and Madame de Mussidan, 
but as to my daughter ” 

Tantaine’s face changed. 

“ I do not understand,” he interrupted, 
speaking in a tone that showed he under- 
stood only too well. 

“It may be that my daughter will reject 
Monsieur de Croisenois.” 

“ Why should she? The Marquis is 
good-looking, he is witty and amiable. ” 

“Nevertheless, she may reject him all 
the same. ” 

“ If mademoiselle resists, ” said the old 
clerk, peremptoril}^, “you will, if you 
please, let me see her for a few minutes. 
After that you will have no further diffi- 
culty, I am inclined to believe. ” 

“ What would you presume to say to my 
daughter? 

“ I should tell her — well — I should tell 
her that if she loves any one it is not 
Monsieur de Breulh ! ” 

He wished to pass through the door as 
these words dropped from his lips, but the 
Count gave the door, which was partially 
open, a violent kick. 

“You will not leave this room, ” he 
said, sternly, ‘‘ without explaining this 
insulting remark. What do you mean?” 

“ Good heavens ! ” he replied, as he ad- 
justed his spectacles, “ I had no intention 
of offending you. I merely ” 

He hesitated, and finally, in a tone of the 
most delicate sarcasm, which was strange 
in a man of his apparent condition, he 
said: “I am aware that a noble heiress 
may do many a thing without being in the 
slightest degree compromised; of which 
one alone would hopelessly ruin the repu- 
tation of a girl of a difierent social grade. 

I am sure that if Monsieur de Breulh- 
Faverlay knew that the lady whom he ex- 
pected to marry was in the habit of pass- 
ing her afternoons in the room of a young 
man ” 

Monsieur de Mussidan’s gesture was so 
threatening that Tantaine started back, 
and pulled out his revolver. 

“ Gently, Comte, if you please. Insults 
and blows never pay. I am simply better 
informed than yourself, that is all. Ten 
times I myself have had the honor of see- 
ing your daughter enter No. — , Rue de la 
Tour d’ Auvergne, and murmur to the 
concierge the name of ‘Andre,’ and then 
glide up the staircase as quickly and si- 
lently as a hare. 

The Comte choked and tore off his cra- 
vat. “ Proofs ! ” he cried. “ Proofs ! ” 

As they talked, the old man had ma- 
noeuvered so successfully that he had suc- 
ceeded in placing between the Comte and 
himself the great library table. Behind 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


243 


this improvised rampart he was compara- 
tively safe. 

‘‘Proofs!” he answered; ‘‘do you 
think I carry them in my pocket? I 
could not furnish you with any of the 
correspondence of these youn^ people 
under a week; that is too long to wait, 
hut you can satisfy yourself very easily. 
To-morrow, before eight o’clock, you can 
go to the address I have just given, and 
ascend the stairs to the studio of this 
Monsieur Andre. There you will find con- 
cealed — like a statue of the Madonna — 
by a green curtain, the portrait of Ma- 
demoiselle Sabine — and a good portrait 
it is, too. I presume you will admit that 
this could not have been painted without a 
sitter. ” 

“Leave this room!” cried the Comte; 
“go instantly!” 

Tantaine did not wait to hear these 
words repeated. He hurried to the door, 
and when he was quite outside, he said, 
cheerfully : 

“ Don't forget the address, sir — Andre, 
artist, Eue de la Tour d’ Auvergne, No. 
— , and go early, before eight o’clock.” 

He saw the Comte start to his feet at 
this final insult, but he was too late. 
Tantaine pulled the door to, and was half 
down the staircase. 

“ It was better than I thought,” he mut- 
tered; “ but, after all, I have yet to see 
the man who is not subdued by a fortnight 
of suspense ! ” 

When he reached the vestibule his face 
was quite as usual, and it was with the 
greatest respect that he greeted the foot- 
man and left the house. 

“ Yes,” he thought, ‘‘it was certainly a 
most happy inspiration of mine. Andre 
knows himself watched ; and of course I 
shall discover nothing more through him. 
Monsieur de Mussidan, now that he is cer- 
tain that his beloved daughter has had a 
lover, will be only coo thankful to accept 
as his son-in-law the Marquis de Croise- 
nois.” 

Tantaine never doubted that Sabine had 
been more than imprudent. The thought 
of a noble, honest love, like that of these 
two young persons, had never entered his 
brain. 


CHAPTER LV. 

The old clerk by this time was in the 
middle of the Champs Elysees, and he 
looked anxiously around. 

“If Toto makes no mistake!” he mut- 
tered; but I was surely very explicit in 
my directions.” 

He began to be not only uneasy but 
much out of temper,,wheii at last he per- 
ceived the one of whom he was in search. 
He was standing looking at a game of 
chance, and was talking earnestly with 
the proprietor of the little table. 


“Toto,” called the gentle Tantaine — 
“Toto-Chupin ! ” 

The boy heard, because he looked 
around, but he did not move. The con- 
versation was evidently of great interest. 

But Tantaine shouted again, and more 
imperiously than before, and Toto reluc- 
tantly left his companion, and went to- 
ward his patron. 

“This is a great time to get here,*’ he 
grumbled. " 1 was just going away ! Are 
you sick, that you set up such a squeal? 
If you are I will go and get a physician.” 

“ I am in great haste, Toto.'’ 

“I dare say. So is the postman when 
he is late. I am busy, too.” 

“ With that person you just left? ’’ 

“ Yes, to be sure : ‘ that person,’ as you 
call him, is wiser than I. How much do 
you make each day. Father Tantaine? 
Well, that person with that little table 
pockets thirty or forty francs every night, 
and he has, nothing to do for it either. It 
must be nice to see people make such fools 
of themselves. I should like that busi- 
ness, and I think I shall start it soon. 
Patience ! ” 

Patience! Father Tantaine thought he 
had never needed it so much in his life as 
at this precise moment. 

“1 thought,’* he said, quietly, “that 
you were going into some business with 
those two 5 ^oung men with whom you 
were drinking beer at the Grand Turc.” 

At this suggestion Toto howled with 
rage. 

“Business with them!” he cried. “I 
do not know them, rascals that they are !” 

‘’ Have they done you any harm, my 
poor Toto? ” 

“ Yes, utterly ruined me. If you choose 
to lend me a hundred sous, I shall have 
five francs in my pocket. Fortunately, I 
sa^v Mascarot yesterday, and he gave me 
leave to sell the furnace. He is a good 
fellow, this Mascarot.” 

Tantaine drew down his lip disdain- 
fully. 

“ Good fellow ! ” he answered. “ He is 
good, I suppose, so long as no one asks a 
favor of him, and is friendly enough.” 

It was so strange to hear this man say a 
word against Mascarot that the youth was 
petrified. 

“ That is not the way you used to talk,” 
he said, at last. 

‘ ‘ I did not know him then. But since he 
has let me half starve while he rolls in gold, 
I say to myself : ‘ That will do — I have 
had quite enough of you. Now, Toto, you 
are a bright boy, so I don't mind telling 
you that I am only waiting for a good 
chance to leave Mascarot and set up in 
business on my own account.” 

“•Work for yourself, Toto,” he said, in a 
tone which betrayed the bitterest decep- 
tion. “ That is more easy to say than to 
do. I know that very well.” 

‘‘You have tried, then? ” 


244 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


“To do something all alone? Yes, I 
have, but 1 came to grief. You know all 
about it as well as I do myself. Don’t tell 
me you did not listen that evening when 
you were looking for Caroline. Well, 
never mind, I can tell you all the same. 
One day, then, I saw a lady looking fright- 
ened to death step out of a fiacre. I fol- 
lowed her. My plan was made, and I had 
decided just what 1 would do. I was well 
dressed then. I rang at the door. I was 
so certain that I was going to make some- 
thing out of her that I would not have 
taken eighty francs down for the hundred 
I expected to have. Well, then, I rang. 
A servant opened the door and I went in. 
What a fool I was. There I found a great 
fellow, who went at me tooth and nail, 
and finally kicked me down stairs.” 

Toto lifted his cap and showed too long 
lines which reddened his manly brow. 

‘'This is his stamp,” he said, grimly. 

Tantaine and the lad were slowly walk- 
ing up the grand avenue, and just at this 
moment they reached the house which 
was being built by Monsieur Gandelu — 
the house where Andre was at work. 

Tantaine took a seat just opposite. 

“ Let us sit down a moment,” he said; 
“ I am horribly tired.” 

And when Toto had taken a seat at his 
side, he added : 

“ Your story, my boy, proved only that 
you are lacking in experience. Now I 
have plenty of that. With Mascarot, it 
was really 1 that was at the head of most 
things. If I were to start for myself I 
should have a carriage this time next year ; 
only one thing deters me. and that is my 
age, for alas ! 1 am growing old. At this 
very moment I have an affair on hand 
which is superb ; half has been paid in ad- 
vance already, and to bring it to a suc- 
cessful termination I need some one who 
is young and quick.” 

Chupin opened his eyes, which were 
eager and bright. 

•‘Why could not I be that one?” 

The old man shook his head. 

“ You are too young,” he said — ‘'just 
as I am too old. The heart, at your age, 
speaks too loudly. You would* recoil "in 
terror just at the critical moment. Then, 
too, I have a conscience.” 

“ So have I! ” cried Toto, “ and it is a 
conscience much like yours. Papa Tan- 
taine ; it has a great deal of elasticity — it 
can be stretched out to nothing, and can 
be rolled up and tucked away. 

"Well! well! perhaps we can come to 
terms.” 

The old clerk pulled out a checked rag 
from his pocket, which did duty as a hand- 
kerchief, and wiped his spectacles without 
removing them. 

"Listen to me, Chupin,” he said; "lis- 
ten to a mere supposition. You hate your 
two quondam friends — the fellows who 
were stronger than you, and who fleeced 


you. Well, suppose you knew that they 
ran about like squirrels all day long in the 
scaffolding of that big house opposite, 
what would you do? ” 

Toto scratched his head. " If your sup- 
position were truth,” he answered at last, 
"those boys might as well say their 
prayers, for I woqld slip into the house at 
night, and with a little saw I would saw 
the planks nearly apart ; and when one of 
my brigands, the next morning, stepped — 
whew! You understand. Father Tan- 
taine ? ” 

"Not bad!” he said; "not bad, upon 
my word, for a lad of eighteen.” 

Toto Chupin swelled with pride. 

"And I would manage so well,” he 
continued, that no one would ever suspect 
me.” 

" The more I see of you, Chupin, the 
more I am convinced that you are pre- 
cisely the partner that I need. Together. 
I am sure that we should make heaps of 
money.” 

" Oh, I am sure of that.” 

"You have worked with carpenter’s 
tools, Toto, I think you once told me? ” 

Toto was radiant. 

" Let me tell you that among my ac- 
quaintances,” said Tantaine, "is an old 
gentleman enormously rich; and this man 
has a mortal enemy, a young man who ran 
off and married the woman "he adored.” 

" The old fellow must have been thunder- 
ing mad ! ” 

"He was not pleased, certainly. Now, 
it so happens, Toto, that this young man 
spends ten hours out of the twenty-four on 
those very scaffolds opposite. The old 
gentleman, who is a clever one, had ex- 
actly your idea, but he is too stout and too 
old to try this game for himself, and 
would, to make a long story short, give 
four thousand francs to the persons who 
would put his idea into execution. Two 
thousand francs for a little sawing ! ” 

The boy's agitation was too evident to 
escape the observation of the old clerk, 
but he pretended not to notice it. 

"But first of all, Chupin,” he said, "I 
must explain to you how and in what the 
old gentleman’s plan differed from yours. 
If any plank were sawed as you suggest, 
why, we would run the risk of some other 
fellow breaking his neck.” 

Toto scratched his head and added: 
" Any one who could find a better way 
would be a smart fellow.” 

" I have found one, Toto.” 

" Pshaw ! I am not curious, but I should 
like to know it.” 

Tantaine smiled genially. 

Listen to me,” he said. " You see ” — 
and he pointed with his finger way up high 
on the house opposite — "a little house, 
as it were, of planks.” 

"It belongs to the ornamental plas- 
terers.” 

" Open your eyes and shut your mouth,” 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


245 


«aid Taiitaine, severely. “ This little 
house, one hundred feet up in the air, has 
a sort of window. If the saw were adroitly 
applied to the supports of the window, 
and any one should lean suddenly upon it, 

or out of it ” 

Yes, I see. But what then? ” 

Tantaine shook his head compassion- 
ately. 

‘*Ah!” he said in a tone of reproach, 
“I thought you more intelligent than 
that, I really did. Suppose the enemy of 
my old gentleman — and this enemy’s 
name is Pierre— ‘was in that little box; 
suddenly he hears way down in the avenue 
a woman’s voice : ‘ Help ! Pierre, help ! 
It is I — your Adele ! ’ what would Pierre 
do, think" you? He would rush to that 
window and lean out, and as the supports 

have been sawed away, he Do you 

see now?” 

Driven to the wall, Chupin hesitated. 

“I don’t say no,” he muttered; ^‘but 
will the old gentleman pay promptly?” 

“ He will pay, and, besides, did I not 
tell you that he had paid half in advance?” 

Toto’s eyes sparkled. 

The old clerk took out a pin which fas- 
tened his inner pocket. This pin he held 
between his teeth while he pulled out two 
bank notes, each for a thousand francs. 

“ This sight gladdened the boy’s heart. 
“ And am I to have one of these? ” he ex- 
claimed. 

Tantaine extended the note. 

At the touch of the silken paper Toto 
shivered, and kissed the note in an ecstasy 
of delight. He then jumped up from the 
seat, and indifferent to the amazed glances 
of the passers-by, he executed a sort of 
pas seul. 

It was agreed that Toto should that very 
night enter this building, and that he 
should not leave until he had completed 
his undertaking. 

The old man thought of everything. 
He even explained to Toto the kind of 
hand-saw he had best choose, and gave 
him the address of a maker who, he said, 
was unrivaled for the quality of the tools 
he manufactured. 

‘‘Above all,” he said, “friend Toto, 
take care not to leave any marks which 
can awaken suspicion. Remember that 
the merest atom of sawdust on the board 
might disclose the whole secret. It would 
be wise, moreover, to furnish yourself 
with a dark lantern — grease your saw 
well, and when you have finished, hide 
the m irks made by the saw. They will be 
as plain as the nose on your face if you do 
not do something. I should put a little 
plaster on the lime and spatter it about.” 

Toto listened to the old man with aston- 
ishment; he had never supposed him so 
practical. 

He promised that he would attend to all 
these details, and supposing that the chap- 
ter of directions was over, he rose to go. 


But the old clerk had not finished. 

By the way,” he said, “ tell me a little 
about Caroline" Schemel. You told Beau- 
marchef that she accused me of making 
her drunk, and that she was looking 
everywhere for me to avenge herself. la 
that true?” 

You were not my partner then,” said 
the boy, with a loud laugh; “ and I only 
thought it would frighten you. The truth 
is, you did make the poor woman drink so 
much that she is very sick, and is in the 
hospital.” 

Tantaine looked pleased. He rose, and 
as he was turning away, he said : 

“ Where do you lodge now? ” 

“ I don’t know. Yesterday I slept in a 
stable ; but I can’t take my ‘ piano ’ there 
you know.” 

“Will you have my room for a few 
days?” said Tantaine, with a grim smile at 
the boy’s joke. “ I have moved, but the 
attic belongs to • me for another fort- 
night. ” 

“ All right. Where is it?” 

“ You know ; in the Rue de la Hachette, 
at the Hotel du Peron. I will write a 
word to the proprietress, Madame Lou- 
pias. ” 

As he spoke, he tore a leaf from his 
notebook, and wrote with a pencil a request 
“ that a young relative cf his. Monsieur 
Toto-Chupin,” should have his room. 

This note Toto carefully placed, with 
his bank-note, within the folds of his cra- 
vat, which seemed to be both his strong 
box and his archives. 

The old clerk watched him cross the 
street and stand on the opposite sidewalk, 
looking up at the men at work. At this 
very moment* Monsieur Gandelu, the 
builder, came out with his son, and stopped 
to give some directions. For two or three 
minutes Toto and Gaston stood side by 
side, so near that the ragged blouse of one 
touched the coat of the other. 

A strange smile flitted over Tantaine’s 
lips as he noticed this. 

‘‘Two children of Paris, charming ex- 
amples of its much boasted civilization. 
The dandy lounges on the sidewalk, while 
the gamin plays in the gutter. Why is it 
that Toto does not buy cigars at twenty 
sous, and let Gaston pick up the stumps? ” 

But he had no time to spend in philoso- 
phizing, as the omnibus he wanted was 
within sight. He hailed it, took his seat, 
and in another half hour he entered that 
house in the Rue Montmartre, where he had 
established Paul Violaine. 

Madame Bregot, that most excellent 
concierge, who was ready to swear that 
Paul had resided in her house for years, 
was in the court yard watching one of her 
lodgers who was bottling wine, when she 
caught sight of Tantaine. She rolled up 
to him with a most ingratiating smile. 
Still absorbed in thought, Tantaine me- 
chanically touched his shabby hat, and it 


246 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


was with an absent air that he asked the 
question : 

And how is our young man? ” 

“Better, sir; much better. I made him 
a good soup yesterday, and he enjoyed it 
extremely. He looks like a king this 
morning, and the doctor has just sent a 
dozen bottles of wine, which will make 
him all right. ” 

Tantaine felt no interest in the reply to 
this question, and passed on toward the 
stairs, but Mother Bregot stopped him. 

“ Some one was here yesterday,” she 
said, “asking questions about Monsieur 
Paul, ” 

“What sort of a looking person was 
this gentleman?” asked Tantaine, after a 
brief silence. 

“ He was a man much like other men — 
neither tall nor short — neither thin nor 
fat, well-dressed, but stingy, for, after he 
had talked to me fifteen minutes, he went 
ofi* and only gave me a five-franc piece — 
was there ever such meanness?” 

J^ot withstanding this accurate descrip- 
tion, the old clerk did not feel himself to 
be any more advanced than before. He 
replied, in a tone of excessive annoyance : 

‘ • Then you remarked nothing about him 
in particular?” 

“ Yes — his spectacles, with gold bows 
as fine as hair ; and his watch-chain,which 
was as big as my thumb.” 

“And is that all? ” 

“ Yes,” she said, “ that is all. Oh! one 
thing; this gentleman knows yop come 
here.” 

“ Indeed ! What makes you think so? ” 

“ Because, while he was talking to me 
he was in a fidget — he never took his eyes 
off the door. He was as restless as Min- 
ette, my cat, when she has stolen a piece of 
meat while my back was turned.” 

“Thank you. Mother Bregot. Be pru- 
dent and watchful,” said Tantaine, as he 
continued his way upstairs far more slowly 
than was his habit. He stopped every two 
or three steps to think. 

“Who can this person be?” he asked 
himself. 

His keen eyes swept the whole horizon ; 
the possibilities and probabilities stood 
out like sails against the sky ; but he could 
not find one on which to fix a suspicion. 

“ Zounds ! ” he muttered, “ are the po- 
lice at my heels?” He tried to reassure 
himself, and to regain his customary auda- 
city, but his nerves were strangely 
shaken. 

He had now reached the third floor, and 
stood before Paul's small apartment. He 
rang, and some one opened the door in- 
stantly. But at the sight of this some one 
he started back and uttered a cry of angry 
astonishment. 

It was a woman who stood before him — 
a young girl, the daughter of Martin Be- 
gal, the banker. At one glance Tantaine, 
a keen observer, saw that Mademoiselle 


Flavia was not with Paul for a few min- 
utes. She had taken off her hat and cloak, 
and held in her hand a piece of embroid- 
ery. 

‘•What do you wish, sir?” she asked. 

The old clerk tried to speak, but he 
could not utter a word. An iron hand 
seemed to be clutching at his throat — he 
looked like a man who was about to be 
struck by apoplexy. 

Flavia looked at "him with some curiosity 
and evident disgust. This shabby old man 
repelled her. She fancied that she had 
seen him before. In fact, there was an in- 
explicable air about him which puzzled her. 

“ I would like to speak to Monsieur 
Paul,” said the old clerk, in a voice so low 
and husky that it was almost unintelligi- 
ble; “ he expects me.” 

“In that case, sir, come in; but a phy- 
sician is at present ^vith this gentleman 
whom you wish to see.” 

As she spoke. Flavia stepped back close 
to the wall, so that this man might enter 
without touching her dress. He passed 
her with a low bow, and crossed the small 
salon with the air of a person who knew 
where he was going. He did not even 
knock, but opened the door of the cham- 
ber and went in. A singular spectacle 
met his eyes. 

Paul, very pale^ was seated on his bed, 
with his shoulders bare, and Hortebise 
was hovering over him with an air of eager 
interest. 

On Paul’s arm, from shoulder to the 
elbow, and over the back and breast, was 
an enormous wound or burn, which must 
have been intensely painful. 

The doctor was applying to this appal- 
ling wound bits of gold-beater’s skin with 
the aid of delicate forceps, and at the same 
time bathing with a solution from a vial. 

On Father Tantnine’s entrance he turned, 
and such was the readiness with which 
these men understood each other, that one 
glance was sufficient. 

“Flavia here!” was what Tantaine’s 
gesture signified. ‘ * Is she nlad? ” 

“ I dare say, but I can’t help it,” was 
what the eyes of Hortebise answered. 

Paul turned, and it was with an excla^ 
mation of delight that he greeted the old 
clerk. 

“ Come here,” he said gayly, “ and look 
at the pitiable state to which the doctor 
and Monsieur Mascarot have reduced me.” 

It was with the attention and curiosity 
of a connoisseur that Tantaine examined 
Paul's wound. 

•• And you are sure that it will deceive, 
not only the eyes of the Due, who will see 
just what we desire, but also those of his 
wife, his friends, and even of his physi- 
cians?” 

“ We will deceive them, though, one 
and all! ” 

“ The next thing to find out is.” con- 
tinued Tantaine, “how long vve must wait 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS. 


247 


until this scar is white and has a look of 
age.” 

“Before a month has elapsed we can 
present Paul to the Due de Champdoce.” 

“ Can it be possible? ” 

“Understand me: the scar will not be 
altogether natural, but there are several 
other things 1 intend to do to it.” 

The dressing was completed, and Paul’s 
shirt was puiled up over his shoulders, 
and he was allowed to lie down. 

“ I am willing to stay here,” he said, 
“ as long as I can keep the nurse I have in 
the next room, and who, I am sure, -is 
waiting with great impatience for your de- 
parture.” 

Hortebise frowned, and launched at his 
patient a furious look, which seemed to 
say : “ Hold your tongue ! ” but the young 
man was blind. 

“How long has this nurse been with 
you?” said Tantaine, in a constrained 
voice. 

“ Ever since I have been in bed,” an- 
swered Paul, with the most conceited air. 
“ I wrote to her that I could not go to her, 
because I was ill — and she came! She 
received my note at nine o’clock, and at 
ten minutes past she appeared.” 

The judicious doctor contrived to get 
behind Tantaine, and made a despairing 
gesture to Paul to impose silence ; but all 
in vain. 

“It seems.” continued the conceited 
simpleton, “that Monsieur Martin Regal 
passes his life in his private office. Just 
as soon as he is up in the morning, he 
secludes himself in his private room, and 
is never seen again all day. Flavia, there- 
fore, is free as air. As soon as she knows 
that this worthy banker is buried in his 
papers, she throws a shawl over her 
shoulders and flies to me. Upon my word, 
no one could be more obliging or prettier.’’ 

In vain did the doctor repeat his danger 
signals. Paul saw them, but did not un- 
derstand, while the old man rubbed his 
spectacles furiously. 

“ You flatter yourself, I think,” he said, 
slowly. 

“ And why? Flavia loves me, you know 
that, of course — and this is the point. 
Poor girl ! I ought to marry her, and I 
will; but still, if I chose ” 

“ Miserable scoundrel ! ” cried the gentle 
Tantaine. 

His gesture was so furious, his voice so 
threatening, that Paul was frightened, 
and drew back to the wall ; but Tantaine 
could not speak lower, because the smiling 
Hortebise put his hand over the mouth of 
the old man, and fairly dragged him from 
the room. 


CHAPTER LVI. 

Paul found himself at a loss to imagine 
why Tantaine had gone out in such a rage. 


Paul had spoken of Flavia in a most im- 
proper way. The girl was entitled to his 
respect and tender deference. 

He understood the resentment of the 
doctor, who was Martin RegaTs intimate 
friend. But what earthly connection was 
there between Tantaine and the rich 
banker? 

Forgetful of the suffering which the 
slightest movement caused him, Paul sat 
up in his bed and listened eagerly, with 
his neck extended, hoping to catch some- 
thing of what was going on in the next 
room. But his efforts were useless. It 
was a thick wall between the salon and 
bedroom, and he could hear nothing. 

“ What are they doing? ” he asked him- 
self — “ what are they plotting? ” 

Father Tantaine and Hortebise crossed 
the salon rapidly, but when they reached 
the staircase they stood still. 

The doctor’s face was as smiling as ever 
and he tried to console his companion, 
who seemed utterly desperate. 

“Courage!” he said, in a low voice — 
“ courage! What on earth is the good of 
getting into a state like this? How can 
you help matters? Ho — it is too late. 
Besides, even if you could, you would not, 
as you very well know.’’ 

The old clerk had drawn out his hand- 
kerchief to dry — not his glasses, but his 
eyes. 

‘‘Ah!” he said, “now I understand 
only too well what Monsieur de Mussidan 
felt when I proved to him that his daugh- 
ter had a lover. I have been cruel, hard, 
and pitiless ! and I am punished — yes, 
cruelly punished.” 

“You must not attach too much impor- 
tance, old friend, to thia nonsense; Paul 
is a mere boy.” 

“ Paul is a miserable, cowardly hound,” 
he replied, in a flerce whisper. “ Paul 
does not love Flavia as she adores him. 
Oh, what he says is true, too true — I feel 
it. Between her father and himself she 
would not hesitate a moment. Poor young 
thing ! what a future lies before her ! ” 

‘ He cheeked himself abruptly. 

“ I cannot speak to her myself,” he said, 
“ do you, doctor, try and make her listen 
to reason.” 

Hortebise shrugged his shoulders. 

“ I will see what my eloquence will do,” 
he answered. “But you are not quite 
yourself, and remerab r, that one word 
from you will betray the secret of our 
lives.” 

“Go at once, I swear to you that what- 
ever happens I will be calm.” 

The doctor returned to the room as he 
spoke, while Tantaine sat down on the 
stairs outside, with his head in his bands. 

Mademoiselle Flavia was just going to 
Paul when the doctor appeared. 

“ Back again! ” she said, pettishly; “ I 
thought you far away.’ 

‘ I wanted to say a few words to you,” 


248 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS, 


answered Hortebise, and serious ones, too. 
You need not draw down those pretty eye- 
brows — I see you understand me. Yes, 
you are right. I came to tell you that 
this is not the place for Mademoiselle Mar- 
tin Regal.” 

‘‘ I know that. ” 

This reply was made with such cool 
calmness that the smiling doctor was evi- 
dently disconcerted. 

It seems to me ” he began. 

What? that I ought not to be here? I 
however, place duty above propriety. 
Paul is very ill ; he has no one with him ; 
who, then, 'would take care of him, except 
the woman he is soon to marry? Has not 
my father given his consent? ” 

Fla via, listen to the voice of my experi- 
ence. Men are so made that they never 
forgive a woman for compromising her- 
self, even for them. Do you know what 
would be said of you twenty-four hours 
after your marriage? They would say 
that Paul was your lover, and that only 
the knowledge of that fact induced your 
father to give his consent. ” 

Fla via’ s face was that of a scarlet 
poppy. 

Very well, ” she said, obey — and 
don’t ever tell me again that 1 am obsti- 
nate. Just let me say one word to Paul, 
and I will go ! ” 

The doctor retired, not in the least sus- 
pecting that he owed it to a suspicion al- 
ready awakened in Flavia’s mind. 

"‘We have done it, ” he said to Tantaine 
on the stairs. “ Now let us hasten. She 
will follow us at once. ” 

When Tantaine was in the street, he 
seemed to have recovered his self- posses- 
sion. 

“We have succeeded, ” he said “ for the 
present, but it is clear that we shall have 
the work to do over daily. This marriage 
must be hastened. It can be done now 
without danger to any one. In twenty- 
four hours the only obstacle which sepa- 
rates this youth from the Champdoce 
millions will have disappeared. ” 

The worthy Dr. Hortebise paled at this 
confidence, although it was not unex- 
pected. 

“ What ! ” he stammered ; “ Andre ” 

“Andre is very ill, doctor! I have ar- 
ranged the plan of which I spoke to you, 
and the most difficult part of the under- 
taking will be this night completed by our 
young friend, Toto-Chupin. ” 

"‘By that boy? Why, only the other 
night you laughed at me when I suggested 
him. ” 

“ I intend to kill two birds with one stone 
now, however. When, after Andre’s fail 
it is discovered, as it certainly will be, 
that the supports of the window have been 
sawed apart, the perpetrator of that abomi- 
nable act will be searched for. My pre- 
cautions are taken. Master Toto will be 
found at the Hotel du Peron ; it will be 


proved that he purchased a saw, and that 
he changed a thousand-franc note. When 
he did so 

Dr. Hortebise looked horrified. 

“ Are you mad? ” he cried. Toto will 
denounce you, I dare say; but by that 
time poor Tantaine will be dead and buried. 
Then follows the interment of B. Mas- 
carot. Beaumarchef, the only one who 
has faithfully served us, will be in Amer- 
ica. The play will have finished, and we 
can snap our fingers at the police ! ” 

“ Decidedly,” he said “ you were made 
for success. But for Heaven’s sake 
hasten ! All this incessant suspense and 
fiuctuations of hope and despair will make 
me seriously ill.” 

These two honorable associates were 
talking thus at the corner of the Rue 
Loquetit partially concealed from observa- 
tion by a high-topped wagon. Each 
wished to ascertain if Flavia’s promise 
had been sincere. 

Flavia had been truthful, for in less 
than ten minutes they saw her pass. 

“ Now,” said the old clerk, “ I can go in 
peace. Good-bye, doctor.” 

Without waiting for a reply, he walked 
away rapidly. 

He was interrupted by Beaumarchef 
who breathlessly barred his passage, just 
as he turned under the porte cochere of B. 
Mascarot. 

“ I was looking for you,” cried Beau- 
marchef. “Monsieur de Croisenois is in 
the office, and is abusing me like a pick- 
pocket.” 

“Go up stairs,” said Tantaine to the 
clerk, “and occupy this penniless Marquis. 
The master will be there before long.” 

Then he disappeared in the alleyway of 
the Martin Regal mansion. 

He was wrong to suspect Beaumarchef. 
He had been told to go upstairs, and he 
obeyed. He had been told to occupy the 
Marquis, and he did his best, but his best 
did not have much effect on the Marquis. 

“ Great business people, to be sure,” he 
grumbled, “ to have forgotten the engage- 
ments they make themselves.” 

He suddenly stopped, for the door of the 
inner sanctuary opened and Mascarot ap- 
peared. 

“ It is not I,” he said, “ who lacks punc- 
tuality, which consists by the arriving, 
not before the hour, but at the hour.” 

The Marquis became the veriest school- 
boy when he was seated opposite the re- 
doubtable Mascarot. It was with a most 
anxious eye that he followed every move- 
ment of the agent, who seemed to be look- 
ing for something among the papers on the 
desk. 

When he had found that for which he 
looked, he turned to the Marquis. 

“ I desired to see you, sir,” he said, “ in 
regard to this great enterprise which you 
are to start, according to our agree- 
ment.” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


249 


Yes, I know, we must discuss it, fully 
understand it, and feel our way.” 

The agent uttered a low, disdainful 
whistle. 

‘‘ Do you think,” he said, that I am the 
sort of person to stand and cool my heels 
while waiting for you to feel your way? 
If you do, you had best undeceive your- 
self as quickly as possible. When I un- 
dertake anything it is promptly done. You 
have been amusing yourself while Catenae 
and I have been working for you. And 
everything is ready.” 

Ready ! how do you mean? ” 

I mean that the offices are taken in Rue 
Vivienne, that the company's by-laws are 
deposited with an attorney, and that the 
members of your board of directoi’S are 
chosen. The printer came here yesterday 
with the prospectuses and circulars ; you 
will find that you can begin to-morrow.” 

‘‘ But ” 

‘‘Read for yourself,” answered Mas- 
carot, extending a sheet of paper. “ Read, 
and perhaps you will be convinced.” 

Croisenois took the paper in a bewildered 
sort of way and read it aloud : 

» COPPER MINES OF TIPILA, 
ALGERIA. 

De Croisenois & Co. 

Capital^ Four Million Francs. 

This company will not appeal to those rash specu- 
lators who are willing to run great risks for the 
sake of great receipts. Our stockholders must not 
expect more than six, or at the most, seven per 
cent, on their investments.” 

“ Well,” asked Mascarot, “ what do you 
think of this beginning? ” 

“ The prospectus,” he said, “ is so tempt- 
ing that I fear lest we have other subscrib- 
ers than those we contemplate. What 
should we do in that case? ” 

‘•We should refuse to take thepa, that is 
all. Ah ! Catenae would settle them soon 
enough. Read your by-laws. Article 20 
says expressly that the Board of Directors 
reserve to themselves the right to accept 
or refuse subscriptions.” 

“That amounts to nothing,” he said. 
“ What shall we do if one of those persons 
whom you compel to take a certain amount 
of ^ stock should sell his certificates to a 
third party? Why may not this third 
party interfere with us?” 

“ Article 21 has provided for this trick — 
listen to it : A transfer is valid onlj'- when 
it has been certified to and authorized by 
the Board of Directors, and inscribed on 
the register of transfers.” 

“ And how will this comedy end? ” 

“ Naturally enough. You will announce, 
some fine morning, that two-thirds of the 
capital being absorbed, compels you to a 
settlement according to Article 17. Six 
months later you will let it be understood 
that this settlement has produced net re- 
sults — zero. You wash your hands of 
the whole affair, and it is all over! ” 

Croisenois felt that he was beaten on all 


points, but he essayed one more argument. 

“ To undertake this enterprise just now 
seems rather hazardous. May it not inter- 
fere with my marriage? May not the 
Comte de Mussidan feel unwilling to give 
his daughter and risk her dowry ? Once 
married ” 

The agent gave a little sniff of disdain, 
which cut short the meandering phrase of 
the Marquis. 

“ You mean, I suppose, that when you 
are once married and have received the 
dowry of Mademoiselle Sabine, you will 
say good-bye to us I Not so, young man. 
If this is your idea, put it out of your head, 
for it is utter nonsense. I shall keep my 
hand on then as now.” 

It was clear that further resistance was 
absurd. 

When Monsieur Martin Regal emerged 
from his office that evening, his daughter 
was more affectionate than usual. 

“How 1 love you, dear father!” she 
said, as she kissed him. “ How good you 
are ! ” 

Unfortunately, he was too preoccupied 
to ask Flavia the occasion of this access of 
tenderness. 


CHAPTER LVIl. 

The danger which menaced Andre was 
imminent. The importance of his game 
compelled him to recognize the audacity 
of his enemies. 

He knew this, and knew that he was in- 
cessantly under the surveillance of a spy. 
What could they want except a favorable 
moment to put him out of the way ? 

But this knowledge and conviction did 
not stop him. All his precautions were 
taken, however, with the idea that were 
he to perish Sabine would be lost. On her 
account he resigned himself to a pru- 
dence that was very far from his charac- 
ter. He knew well that he could claim 
assistance from the police, but this would 
be to risk the honor of Sabine’s family. 

He was certain that with time and pa- 
tience he should be able to unravel the 
secret of these scoundrels, but he had not 
time to move these mountains grain by 
grain. 

The minutes which separated Sabine 
from the horrible and irreparable sacrifice 
were counted, and it seemed to him that 
his life was running away from him with 
the hours. 

One by one he went over the events that 
had occurred, and he sought to piece them 
together as a child tries to fit the scattered 
bits of a dissected map. He looked for 
one common interest which could bind 
these people all together — Verminet. Van 
Klopen, Mascarot, Hortebise and Martin 
Regal. Submitting to the severest analysis 
all the various incidents of the last few 


250 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


days, the young artist finally got round to 
Gaston Gandelu. 

‘‘Is it not strange,” bethought, “that 
this unfortunate boy should be victimized 
by the same scamps who are devouring us 
— by Verminet and Van Klopen? It is 
very strange.” 

He stopped short with a start. 

An entirely new thought had started to 
light in his mind — a thought that was as 
yet crude and undefined — but a thought, 
none the less, that vaguely promised deliv- 
erance and hope. 

That inexplicable voice of presentiment 
told him that young Gandelu’s affairs were 
closely interwoven with his own, that they 
were part and parcel of the same intrigue, 
and that these forged notes were a portion 
of the general plan. 

How this was done — how Gaston and 
he could be connected — Andre could not 
conceive; yet he would have taken his 
oath that such was the case. Who was it 
that had denounced young Gandelu to his 
father? Catenae. Who had advised the 
complaint against Hose-Gora? Catenae 
again. Now this Catenae, who was Gan- 
delu’s lawyer, was also the man of busi- 
ness of Verminet and De Croisenois. Had 
he not obeyed their instructions? 

All this certainly was vague and en- 
tangled. Between each of these presump- 
tions links were needed with which to con- 
nect them, and these links were not yet to 
be procured ; and yet Andre determined to 
pursue his investigations on this basis. 

He took a pencil with the intention of 
writing down certain results, when he 
heard a knock on his door. 

He looked at his clock; it was not nine. 

“ Come in ! ” he said, as he rose. 

The door was thrown open, and the 
young artist received a blow which made 
him stagger, for before him stood Sabine's 
father. Andre had seen him but twice in 
his life, but that was enough; he could 
never forget him. 

The Comte was no less agitated. It was 
after a long and sleepless night that he de- 
cided to take this step ; but he had had 
time for preparation. 

‘"You will excuse me, sir,” he said, 
“ for intruding upon you at so unseason- 
able an hour, but I thought I should be 
more likely to meet you.” 

Andre bowed. In this brief minute a 
thousand suppositions, each more unlikely 
than the other, had flashed through his 
mind. Why had the Comte come there? 
Was it as a friend or as an enemy? Who 
had given him his address ? 

“ I am an amateur,” said the Comte, 
“ and one of my friends, whose taste is ex- 
quisite, has spoken with much enthusiasm 
of your talents. This will excuse the 
liberty I take. Curiosity compelled me 


He did not finish his phrase. He stopped 
short, and then added : 


“ I am the Marquis de Bevron.” 

It was plain, therefore, that De Mussi- 
dan did not choose to be known. This 
was an indication. 

“ I am only too happy to see you, sir,” 
answered Andre; “unfortunately, how- 
ever, I have nothing completed just at 
present, only a few studies and sketches. 
Will you see them? '' 

The Comte eagerly assented. He was 
miserable — embarrassed — under his ficti- 
tious name, and felt unwilling to meet the 
frank, honest eyes of the young painter. 
He was, moreover, still further disturbed 
by seeing in one of the corners of the ate- 
lier the veiled picture of which Tantaine 
had spoken. 

It was plain that these men told the 
truth, and this serge curtain hid his 
daughter’s portrait. This man, then, was 
Sabine’s lover. She came here — she spent 
hours here. Alas! whose fault was it? 
She had listened to the advice of her heart. 
She had accepted from a lover that afiec- 
tion which her parents refused to give. 

The Comte was forced to admit that 
Sabine’s choice was not an unworthy one. 
At first sight he had been struck with the 
manliness of the young artist, and by the 
freshness and intelligence of his face. 

“You come to me under a borrowed 
name,” Andre thought, “ and 1 will respect 
your incognito, but will take advantage of 
it in one way, for I will tell you what I 
never dared to say to you directly.” 

Great as was Andre's preoccupation, he • 
saw, nevertheless, that his visitor's eyes 
turned again and again to the veiled pic- 
ture. 

Monsieur de Mussidan had gone around 
the room, and he had time to g ither to- 
gether all his energies. He came back to 
Andre. 

“ Accept my congratulations, sir,” he 
said. “ The eulogies of my friend were 
not misplaced. I regret, however, that 
you have no finished work to show me — 
for you have nothing, I believe?” 

“ Nothing, sir.” 

“Not even that picture, sir, whose 
superb frame shows below that serge cur- 
tain? ” 

Although he had expected this question, 
the painter colored excessively. 

“Excuse me, sir,” he answered, “that 
picture is certainly completed, but I never 
show it to any one.” 

Of course, on this the Count could have 
no further doubt of the correctness of 
Tantaine's information. 

“ I guess it to be a woman's portrait.” 

“You are right, sir, it is the portrait of 
a woman.” 

The situation was strange, and one was 
as much troubled as the other ; each turned 
his head away in embarrassment. 

But the Count had sworn he would go 
on to the bitter end. 

“I see,” he said, “you are in love;” 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


251 


and he laughed a forced and nervous laugh. 

All great painters have immortalized the 
beauty of their mistresses.” 

Andre's eyes flashed. 

‘"Stop, sir — you misunderstand? That 
is the portrait of the purest and most inno- 
cent of girls. It would be as impossible 
to cease to love as to stop the circulation 
of the blood in my veins. Jlut I respect 
as much as I love her. She my mistress ! 
I should loathe myself forever if I had 
ever breathed one word to her that her 
own mother could not have heard ! ” 

Never in his life had Monsieur de Mus- 
sidan experienced so delicious a sensation 
of relief. 

""You will excuse me,” he said; “ but a 
portrait in a studio suggests that there 
must have been a model.” 

""And there was, sir. She came, un- 
known to her family, risking her honor, 
her reputation, and her life, and thus giv- 
ing me the strongest possible proof of her 
affection.” 

He shook his head sadly. 

I was wrong,” he said, “ very wrong, 
to accept this devotion, and yet not only 
did I accept it, but I went on my knees to 
ask it. How else was I ever to hear her 
voice or see her.” 

‘‘We love each other, but an abyss di- 
vides us more difficult to cross than the 
ocean. She is an heiress ; her family are 
noble and proud, while I ” 

Andre checked himself ; he waited, hop- 
ing for some word of encouragement or 
blame. 

The count did not speak, and Andre 
went on : 

“Do you know what I am? A poor 
foundling, dropped in the basket at the 
hospital door by some poor girl who had 
been betrayed. One morning, when I was 
twelve years old, I ran away from the 
hospital at Vendome with twenty francs 
in my pocket, and found my way to Paris, 
and since I have earned my bread by daily 
toil ; you see onlj the brilliant side of my 
life. Here, I am an artist; elsewhere I 
am a common workman.” 

If Monsieur de Mussidan still kept 
silent, it was because he could not defend 
himself from a real admiration for this 
fine character which was so unexpectedly 
revealed to him ; and he did not wish to 
show this. 

“All that,” continued Andre, “she 
knows, and yet she loves me. Here, in 
this very room, she has sworn never to be 
the wife of another. Not a month ago 
one of the most brilliant men in Paris so- 
licited her hand. She went to him and 
told him our story, and he generously 
withdrew, and to-day is my dearest and 
best friend. And now sir, do you wish to 
see the picture of this young girl? ” 

"‘Yes,” answered the Comte; ‘‘and I 
shall be grateful to you for that mark of 
confidence.” 


Andre went to the picture, but as he 
touched the curtain his hand dropped, and 
he turned around hastily. 

“No!” he exclaimed — “no! I cannot 
continue this comedy. It is unworthy of 
me!” 

Monsieur de Mussidan turned pale. 

"" I know,” he said, “ that I am about to 
see Sabine’s portrait. Uncover it sir, if 
you please.” 

Tlie young painter obeyed, and for a 
moment Monsieur de Mussidan stood in 
silent ecstacy before this remarkable work 
of genius. 

“ Yes, it is she,” said her father — “ her 
very smile, the light in her eyes! It is 
beautiful ! ” 

He said a few other words in so low a 
tone that they were lost. 

Misery is a rude master. Some weeks 
earlier — a few weeks before — he would 
have smiled and raised his eyebrows at 
the proposition of giving his daughter to 
this insignificant painter. Then he had 
not an idea beyond Monsieur de Breulh- 
Faverlay. At this hour he would have 
received as a boon from Heaven permis- 
sion to choose Andre for Sabine ; but now 
Henri de Croisenois was in the field. At 
this thought the Comte started. 

Andre seemed so calm that he concluded 
he must be thoroughly informed of all 
that had recently taken place. 

He asked a question and was unde- 
ceived. 

Sure of having won the day, the young 
painter told Monsieur de Mussidan ex- 
actly what he knew — the goodness of 
Monsieur de Breulh, the kindness of Mad- 
ame de Bois d’Ardon — at last his conjec- 
tures, his investigations, his forebodings 
of success, his projects and his hopes. 

After a few minutes passed in looking 
at his daughter’s picture, he turned to the 
young painter, and taking his hand, he 
said: 

“Monsieur Andre, if we ever release 
ourselves from these wretches who hold 
the knives to our throats, Sabine shall be 
your wife.” 


CHAPTER LVHI. 

Yes, Sabine was his — but when? Be- 
tween her and himself were Croisenois and 
his associates. 

He felt strong enough to dare them all. 

“ To work ! ” he cried ~ “ to work ! ” 

But he stopped and listened. 

On the stairs, almost at his door, he 
heard shouts of immoderate laughter. 
Above a woman’s voice rose that of a 
man, who was scolding in a sharp, high 
key. 

Andre had no time to ask what this 
meant, for his door was opened, and a 
whirlwind of silk, velvet and lace burst 
into his studio. And around this whirl- 


252 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


wind the young painter recognized, not 
without astonishment, the beautiful Rose- 
Gora de Chantemille. 

Behind her was Gaston Gandelu, and it 
was he who first spoke* 

“ Here we are,” he shouted, natural as 
life. Did you expect us? ” 
iSTot at all.” 

‘‘ Ah, indeed! Well, it was a surprise of 
papa’s. Upon my word I intend to make 
his declining years happy, as Leon tine 
said in the play. This morning he came 
into my room, and he said to me : I took 
all the steps yesterday to release a person 
whom you like. Go and find her. Now 
what do you think of that? So I rush off, 
and I find Gora, and here we are ! ” 

Andre gave him only a divided attention. 
He was watching Gora, who was looking 
about the studio. She pounced on Sabine’s 
portrait, and was about to draw the cur- 
tain aside. He saw that in a moment it 
would be too late. 

“ Pardon me,” he said, hastily; have 
to place a picture to dry. ” 

And as the portrait stood on a movable 
easel, he l olled it into the next room. 

"Now,” resumed Gaston. wish to 
celebrate Gora’s deliverance. Will you 
come and breakfast with us? ” 

Thank you; no. Indeed I cannot for 
I must work.” 

I dare say — and work is a very good 
thing — but just now you must go and 
dress ” 

‘‘Indeed, it is quite impossible; I can- 
not go out. ” 

Gaston thought a moment, then ex- 
claimed : 

“ I have it ; you will not come to break- 
fast. Well, then, breakfast shall come to 
you. Excellent I I will go down and or- 
der it. ” 

Andre rushed after him, but it was in 
vain that he shouted, and he returned to 
his studio much out of temper. This an- 
noyance Rose noticed. 

That is the way he goes on,” she said, 
shrugging her shoulders ; “ and he thinks 
himself very witty. Pshaw I ” 

The girl’s tone indicated such profound 
contempt for Gaston that the painter 
looked at her in astonishment. 

“Why are you so amazed?” she said. 
“ It is easy to see that you don’t know him. 
And all his friends are just like him. If 
you listen to them for an hour you are ab- 
solutely nauseated. Merely to think of 
the evenings I have spent in their society 
makes me yawn. ” 

And she yawned fit to take her head off. 
“ H he only loved me ! ’’ she sighed. 

“ Loved you ! Why he adores you I ” 
Rose-Gora made a little gesture that 
would have excited Toto-Chupin's envy 
and admiration. 

“And you believe that? ” he said. “ Do 
you know what he loves in me? When 
people look at me as they pass, and say : 


‘ Heavens ! what chic I ’ my idiot looks 
proud and happy. But if I wore a cam- 
bric wrapper he would not look at me.” 

The fact is that Rose had improved. 
Her impudent beauty had never been so 
brilliant. She was glowing with youth, 
passion and insolence. 

“ My name did not please him,” she con- 
tinued. “ His dainty lips could not conde- 
scend to the name of Rose, and so he 
called me Gora — a dog's name, by the 
way — and I have to bear it. He has 
money, but I do not care much for money 
after all. My dear Paul had no money, 
and yet I loved him well. I have forgot- 
ten how to laugh, I think, and yet I was 
very merry once.” 

But why did you abandon Paul? ” 

“Tell me, will you, why there is velvet 
at forty-five francs the metre? I thought 
I should like to know how women feel 
when they put an India shawl over their 
shoulders, so one fine day I took fiight; 
but after all — who knows? — perhaps 
Paul would have left me. There was some 
one doing his best to separate us — a 
neighbor in the Hotel du Peron — an old 
monkey by the name of Tantaine.” 

At this name Andre fairly gasped : 

“ Nonsense ! ” he said, carelessly ; “what 
interest could he take in separating you? ’’ 

“ I don't know,” answered Rose, becom- 
ing all at once very serious; “but I am 
sui*e he had one. One does not give bank- 
notes to people for nothing, and I saw him 
give one for five hundred francs to Paul. 
More than that, too, he promised him that 
he should make a great fortune through a 
friend by the name of Mascarot.” 

This time Andre did not start. 

Andre recalled the visit that Paul had 
made him on the pretext of returning 
twenty francs. He remembered that Paul 
had boasted that he could make a million 
francs each month, and that he had not 
said how. 

“Paul has forgotten me, I think,” con- 
tinued Rose. “Once I met him at Van 
Klopen's, and he said not one word. It is 
true he was with that Mascarot. 

From all this one conclusion was inevit- 
able — Paul was protected by the associa- 
tion. Then he was useful to them. Rose 
was persecuted by them — she was in their 
way. 

This was Andre’s swift decision : 

“And,” he thought, “if Catenae shut 
up Rose, it looks as if he were afraid of 
her. It seems as if her mere presence de- 
ranged their combinations.” 

But he had not time to finish his deduc- 
tions. Gaston’s falsetto voice was heard 
on the stairs. Presently he appeared. 

“ Room for the feast I ” he cried. “Bring 
on the feast I ” 

Two waiters followed Gaston with enor- 
mous hampers and trays. 

At any other time Andre would have 
been furious at this invasion, and the pros- 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


253 


pect of a breakfast which should last two 
hours at least, and put everything in his 
atelier out of order. 

But at this moment he was inclined to 
bless Gaston for the inspiration, and it was 
with the best grace in the world that, as- 
sisted by Rose, he cleared off a large table 
on which the cloth was laid. 

Gaston did not do anything, however, 
he* orated. 

“Ah 1 ” he said, “ I must tell you a story 

— a good joke. Henri de Croisenois, one 
of my most intimate friends, has just or- 
ganized a company.” 

Andre nearly dropped a carafe he held. 

“Who told you so?” he cried. 

“Who told me so? A great yellow 
placard told me sol — ‘Tiflla Mines — 
capital of four millions.’ I call that the 
joke of the season. Poor, dear Marquis, 
and he has not a penny to buy a loaf of 
bread.” 

The young painter looked so utterly be- 
wildered that Gaston Gandelu laughed 
aloud. 

“ You look just as I did,” he said, “when 
I stood with open mouth before that pla- 
card. Croisenois president of a company I 
If I had read in a paper that you were 
elected pope, I really should not have been 
more astonished. Mines of Tifila ! Tifila 
Mines I The shares are five hundred 
francs ! ” 

Meanwhile, the breakfast was being 
placed on the table, the waiters had retired, 
and young Gaston summoned his guests 
in the shrillest possible voice. But alas I 
more than one breakfast that begins gayly 
ends tempestuously. 

Monsieur Gandelu, whose head was not 
of the steadiest, drank inordinately, and 
before long the fumes of the wine mingled 
with the fumes of vanity in his shallow 
brain. The small amount of good sense 
he had disappeared entirely, and he began 
to overwhelm Gora with bitter reproaches 

— not being able to understand, as he told 
her, how a man, serious like himself and 
destined to play a great role in society, 
had been led away by a person like her- 
self. 

Gaston possessed an inexhaustible store 
of invectives, but Rose was even stronger 
than he. If she were attacked, she defended 
herself so effectually that that faulty 
youth, feeling himself utterly crushed, 
lost his temper — or what remained of it 

— and went off saying that never, no, 
never, would he ever see Gora again. 
That she could keep all he had ever given 

— furniture and jewels — and that he 
should consider himself well rid of her at 
this price. 

His departure delighted Andre, who, 
now that he was alone with Gora, hoped 
to obtain further information from her, 
and an exact account of Paul, w’hom he 
now numbered among his adversaries. 

Vain hope ! Gora was so exasperated, 


or rather had been, that she would not 
hear one word. She resumed in all haste 
her velvet mantle, put on her hat without 
a glance at the mirror, and was off in a 
twinkling, saying she meant that very mo- 
ment to find Paul, and that she would 
make him punish Gaston for his insults. 
All this passed so rapidly that the young 
painter felt as if he had been visited by a 
tornado. 

As quiet and calm fell on his silent stu- 
dio, he began to realize that Providence 
had made a direct interposition in his favor, 
and had sent this interesting pair to fur- 
nish him with new facts, which were of 
the greatest importance. 

And, in fact, all that Rose had said, in- 
complete as it was, threw a sheet of light 
on that portion of the intrigue which until 
then had been enveloped in the thickest 
darkness. 

The relations of Paul with Tantaine ex- 
plained the pains Catenae had taken to 
shut Rose up, and also the forged signa- 
tures torn from the weak-minded Gaston. 

But what was the significance of this 
business enterprise started by the Marquis 
de Croisenois, just at the time that he was 
making his demand for Sabine’s hand? 

Andre decided to turn his attention first 
to this detail ; and, without stopping to 
change his blouse for a coat, he ran down 
stairs and out to the corner of the street, 
where Gaston had told him he had seen 
the placard. 

It was there, dazzling and conspicuous, 
and sufiSciently fascinating to extract 
money from the pockets of the most timid 
capitalists. 

Nothing was lacking, not even a vignette 
of Tifila (Algeria) , which represented 
miners loading barrows with the precious 
metal; while, at the head, the name of De 
Croisenois stood out in letters half a foot 
in height. 

Andre looked at this masterpiece for five 
minutes, when all at once he had a gleam 
of common sense and prudence. 

“ Idiot ! ” he said to himself, “ what am 
I doing here? How do I know how many 
knaves may be reading my countenance 
and deciphering there all my projects and 
plans?” 

When he returned to his room he sat for 
an hour turning over in his brain every 
expedient. Finally, he flattered himself 
he had discovered one. 

Under his windows extended a great 
garden, belonging to some institution 
which fronted on the Rue de Laval. A 
wall, not over seven feet in height, sepa- 
rated his house from this garden. 

Why could he not go out by the way of 
that garden? 

“ I can,” he said, “ disguise myself in 
such a way that they would not recognize 
me, and to-morrow at dawn get out by the 
way of the Rue de Laval, while the spies 
are watching my door. It is not necessary 


254 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS. 


for me to sleep here. No I I can ask a 
shelter from Vignol, who will aid me 
also in every possible way. 

This Vignol was the brave and loyal 
friend, who, in the absence of Andre, su- 
perintended the work going on at the 
Gandelu mansion. 

‘‘ In this way,” he continued, I can es- 
cape completely from Croisenois and his 
banditti. I can watch their game without 
their suspecting me. Of course, I must 
cease to see all those who now assist me : 
De Breulh, Gandelu and Monsieur de 
Mussidan. But that can’t be helped. In 
an emergency I can make use of the tele- 
graph, and I had best inform these three 
persons of my intentions. 

It was dark before he had finished his 
letters. Of course he could attempt noth- 
ing at that hour. He went, therefore, to 
the nearest restaurant for his dinner; and, 
having mailed his letters, returned to his 
rooms to arrange his disguise. 

His costume was ready, for he found it 
among his old clothes — a blue blouse, 
plaid pantaloons, shabby shoes, and an 
equally shabby cap, were all he required. 

It was to the task of changing his face 
that Andre now applied himself. 

He began by cutting off his beard ; then 
his hair in such a way that he brought 
down two long locks, which he glued to 
his forehead. This done, he looked for 
some water colors, and armed with a 
camel’s hair brush, he began his work: 
which was more difficult than one would 
suppose. 

It was not until after long and patient 
toil that he was satisfied with the results, 
ile then dressed himself, wrapped an old 
handkerchief round his throat, and placed 
his cap on one side, with the visor pulled 
down over the right eye. 

When thus equipped, he looked at him- 
self in the mirror ; he thought himself ab- 
solutely hideous. As a conscientious ar- 
tist, he was about to correct certain faults 
in his make-up, when he heard a knock at 
his door. 

It was nine o’clock. He was expecting 
no one. The waiters from the restaurant 
had taken their trays away. Who then 
could it be but his concierge, whom he did 
not choose should see him in his disguise, 
as he had but limited confidence in the 
discretion of Madame Poilevin. 

‘‘ Who is there? ” he asked. 

‘‘ It is I ! ” answered a plaintive voice — 
‘‘Gaston!” 

Was there any reason to distrust this 
boy? Andre decided not, and he opened 
his door. 

“Has Monsieur Andre gone out?” he 
asked, faintly; “I thought it was he who 
spoke.” 

Then he was deceived by the disguise ! 
This was a triumph for Andre, but showed 
him at the same time that his voice must 
be changed as well as his face. 


“ What! ” he said, “ do you not recog- 
nize me? ” 

It was plain that some terrible catas- 
trophe had befallen young Gandelu. It 
could not be his morning excesses that 
had reduced him to this state. 

“ Tell me,” said Andre, kindly, what 
is it that has gone wrong with you? ” 

“I have come to say good-bye to you. 
I am going to blow out my brains at once 

“Are you mad?” 

Gaston struck his forehead in a dreary 
way. 

“ Not in the least,” he said ; “ it is sim- 
ply that those notes have turned up. To- 
night, just as I was leaving the dining-room 
— having dined with papa — the butler 
whispered to me that a man was waiting 
for me outside in the street. I went out 
and found a dirty old beggar, with his 
coat collar turned up about his ears. 

“ Old Tantainel ” cried Andre. , 

“ Ah ! Is that his name? I don’t know. 
He said to me in the sweetest voice, that 
the holder of my notes- had decided to lay 
them before the authorities to-morrow, at 
twelve o’clock, but that a way was open 
for escape for me.” 

“And this was to go to Italy with 
Rose. ” 

Gaston’s surprise was so great that he 
started to his feet. 

“ Who told you so? ” he cried. 

“ Nobody ; I guessed it. It was part of 
their plan when you were first induced to 
forge the signature of Monsieur Martin 
Regal. And what did you say ? ” 

“That the proposition was utterly ab- 
surd, and that I would not move one foot ; 
and they will find that I have a will. Be- 
sides, I see their plan. As soon as I am 
out of the way they will go to my father 
and blackmail him.” 

Andre was not listening. What should 
be done? 

To advise Gaston to depart and take 
Rose with him was to deprive himself of a 
considerable chance of success. To let 
him kill himself was not to be thought of, 
ordinary humanity forbade that. 

“Listen to me,” he said finally. “I 
have an idea, Gaston, which I will disclose 
to you when we are out of the house. 
Only for certain reasons, which would 
take too long to describe to you now, it is 
expedient that I get to the street without 
going out of this door. You will go away, 
and just as the clock strikes twelve you 
will ring at the gate of No. 29 Rue de 
Laval. When it is opened, ask some ques- 
tion of the concierge. Take care that you 
do not latch the gate, and as I shall be at 
that very moment in the garden, I will 
rush out and join you.” 

The plan succeeded, and in ten minutes 
he and Andre were calmly walking along 
the boulevard. 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


255 


CHAPTER LrX. 

It was on the Boulevard Malesherbes, 
near the church of Saint Augustin, in a 
magnilicent new house, that the Marquis 
de Croisenois resided. 

There, in a modest apartment, at a ren- 
tal of four thousand francs, he had assem- 
bled enough that was left of his former 
mMgnificence to dazzle and impress super- 
fici il observers. 

His apartment was taken in the name of 
his valet. His coupe and horse belonged, 
in the same way, to his coachman. For 
this ruined gentleman had both coup6 and 
coachman, althougli it had come to pass 
that he had found himself so low in funds 
moi e than once that he went to bed in the 
dark, as he had not four sous with which 
to buy a candle. 

Two servants waited on the Marquis — 
a coachman, who did a certain amount of 
indoor duties, an/1 a valet, who knew 
enough of cooking to prepare a bachelor 
breakfast. 

This valet Mascarot had seen but once, 
and the man had produced on him so sin- 
gular an impression that, full of distrust, 
he at once applied himself to discover 
whence he came and who he was. 

Croisenois had taken him into his ser- 
vice, he said, on the recommendation of 
one of his friends, a certain baronet by 
the name of Waterfield. 

The valet was called Morel, but he had 
lived long in England, for he spoke Eng- 
lish passably well. 

Andre knew none of these details, but 
he had heard something of the man from 
Monsieur de Breulh, when he asked for 
thi address of the Marquis. At eight 
o’clock in the morning, after he had left 
his house in the way we have described, 
Andre, disguised and begrimed, estab- 
lished himself at a second-class wine-shop 
close by the mansion in which resided 
Monsieur de Croisenois. He had selected 
the hour intentionally. He was enough of 
a Parisian to know that this was the time 
selected by the servants, in the fashion- 
able quarters, to gossip and lounge, while 
their masters were still asleep. 

Andre's confidence had gro^vn since the 
previous evening, for his plans of saving 
Gaston had succeeded beyond the most 
sanguine hopes. 

This was what he had done. 

After an infinite deal of trouble, and 
even by the employment of threats, he had 
induced Gaston to return to his father’s 
house. 

He had reached the Chaussee d’Antin 
about two o’clock, and had not hesitated 
to awaken tlie old gentleman, and, after 
explaining his own disguise, he told him 
the whole story of how his son had been 
victimized and induced to commit the 
forgery, and had now determined on 
suicide. 


The old man was much moved. 

Go to him,” he said to Andre, “ tell 
him to come to me, and say that we two 
will save him.” 

Andre had not far to go, for Gaston was 
waiting in the next room, in an agony of 
suspense. 

He went to his father sincerely touched, 
and profoundly penitent for having in- 
flicted so much sorrow on such a good and 
tender father. 

‘‘Come in, Gaston,” Andre had said. 

But he, with an energy unlike himself, 
exclaimed : 

“ Never call me by that name again. It 
is as false as the coronet on my visiting 
cards. Call me Pierre Gandelu. My 
father is only too kind to allow me to bear 
his name.” 

The next thing was to decide what 
course to take to rescue the boy from the 
consequences of his own folly. 

“ I do not believe,*’ said old Gandelu, 
that these wretches will dare to carry their 
threat into execution, and go before the 
authorities. No, they will not dare to do 
this; but my son must not remain in this 
suspense. 1 myself will make a complaint 
before twelve o'clock, and we will see 
what happens to the Mutual Loan Society, 
which lends money to minors, and extorts 
forged signatures in return! It will be 
best, however, for my son to go to Bel- 
gium to-morrow morning, but he will not 
stay long, as 5 ^ou will see.” 

Andre remained in the old gentleman’s 
house through the night, and it was in 
Gaston’s room that he made himself up 
ag in in the morning. 

The future looked rosy to him as he 
walked lightly up the Boulevard Males- 
herbes. 

And this enormous result Andre had ob- 
tained without compromising himself in 
the least — neither his name, De Breulh’s, 
nor that of the Comte de Mussidan, had 
been uttered. 

He determined to attach himself to 
Croisenois like a shadow. 

The establishment where he installed 
himself was wonderfully adapted for this 
purpose. From the table where he sat he 
could not only see the door of the house, 
but all the windows of the apartment in- 
habited by De Croisenois. He could not 
fail to see whoever went in and came out. 

Furthermore, as there was no other 
wine- shop in the vicinity, Andre felt cer- 
tain that all the servants of the neighbor- 
hood, and of course those of De Croise- 
nois, would come there. In that case he 
could talk with them, offer them some- 
thing to drink, and in that way extract 
something from them. 

The room, which was large and clean, 
was full of customers, nearly all of them 
servants. 

He racked his brain for some excuse for 
questioning the proprietor of the establish- 


256 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS, 


ment, when two new guests entered. 
These were in livery, while the other men 
all wore their morning jackets. As soon as 
these last appeared, an old man with a 
placid countenance, who was struggling 
with a tough beefsteak at the table next to 
Andre, said aloud : 

“Ah, ha! here comes the Croisenois 
people.” 

“If these men,” he thought, “would 
have the happy thought of taking their 
seats near this old man, who knows them, 
I could hear every word they say.” 

TJiis they did, and at the same time en- 
treated the proprietor to serve them in- 
stantly, as they had not, they asserted, 
one moment to themselves. 

“What are you in such a hurry about?” 
asked the old man near whom they seated 
themselves. 

“ I have to drive my master to his office, 
for he has an office now. He is the presi- 
dent of a minin;^ company — copper mines 
— a splendid thing it is, too. If you have 
any savings. Monsieur Benoit, and you 
ought to have, this is your chance to in- 
vest them.” 

Benoit shook his head gravely. 

“Who can tell?” he said; “all that 
looks good is not good, and that which 
seems bad is not bad.” 

Benoit was evidently a prudent man, 
who had seen much of life, and was not 
disposed to commit himself lightly. 

“But,” he continued, “ if your Marquis 
is going out, you. Monsieur Morel, will be 
free, and we can have one game of pi- 
quet.” 

“ Ho, sir,” answered the valet. 

“Are you engaged, also?” 

“Yes, sir; 1 am to put on white gloves 
and carry a box of flowers to my master’s 
future wife. I have seen the lady ; she is 
a little haughty.” 

It was actually Sabine of whom this man 
with the preposterously stiff high collar 
was speaking. Andre felt like strangling 

him. 

“ Let us hope,” said the coachman, with 
his mouthful, “ that the Marquis does not 
propose to put his wife’s dowry into his 
new business.” 

The three men ceased to speak of Mon- 
sieur de Croisenois, and began to talk of 
their own affairs. 

They soon went out without again pro- 
nouncing -the name of the Marquis, leaving 
Andre to reflect on the difficulties in the 
path of a spy. The glances he encountered 
from those about him were distrustful. 

Our young artist was far from ingratiat- 
ing in his appearance ; neither had ne yet 
acquired the art of seeing and hearing 
without seeming to do either. It was easy 
to see he was there for something more 
than the ostensible reason of obtaining a 
breakfast, and the men about him saw that 
he was waiting for something and that he 
was impatient. 


As Andre had penetration enough to 
perceive the impression he had made, he 
became more and more embarrassed. 

lie had finished eating and was smoking 
a cigar — he had ordered a petit verve. 

Almost all the customers had with- 
drawn, leaving only five or six at a table 
near the door, where they were playing 
cards and enjoying themselves hugely, 
judging from their shouts of laughter. 

But, as he wished to see De Croisenois 
enter his carriage, he lingered a moment 
longer and ordered another glass of 
brandy. 

He had just received it when an individ- 
ual entered, whose dress and air was sin- 
gularly similar to his own. 

This was a tall, ungainly fellow, with 
an impudent expression and no beard, only 
a tuft of red hair on his chin. He wore a 
dilapidated cap and equally dilapidated 
coat. 

In a sharp, squeaking voice he asked for 
a plate of beef and a half pint of wine, 
and as he passed Andre tipped over his 
glass of brandy. 

The artist did not speak, although he 
was quite sure that this was no accident, 
and the fellow uttered an insolent laugh. 
When his breakfast appeared he threw a 
long jet of saliva on Andre's pantaloons. 

This insult was so fiagrant and pointed, 
that Andre reflected as to its meaning. 
Was it possible that he had not eluded his 
spies as he fancied he had done? Was it 
not quite possible that this individual had 
been sent to pick a quarrel with him and 
give him a blow that would settle him? 
Prudence bade him depart at once, but he 
felt he could never go until he had satis- 
fied himself positively of the truth. 

But there was little doubt. The fellow 
deliberately cut up his beef, and every bit 
of skin or muscle he found lie tossed over 
on his neighbor. Then he drank his wine, 
leaving a teaspoonful in his glass, which 
he threw, not on Andre’s legs, but upon 
his shoulders. 

This was a little too much. 

“ Pay attention to the fact,” said the 
young painter, calmly, “ that some one is 
sitting here.” 

“ I know that very well. Do you think 
I have no eyes?” 

And the fellow thrust his two fists in 
Andre’s face. 

Andre started to his feet, and with one 
good blow, planted full in the breast, he 
pitched the fellow over a chair and under 
the table. At the noise the card party 
turned around. 

They beheld Andre standing with flash- 
ing eyes and lips trembling with rage, the 
other fellow was lying on the floor among 
the chairs. 

“ Ho fighting here, do you understand?” 
said one of the players. 

Andre’s adversary struggled to his feet 
and made a rush at the young artist, who 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


257 


with an adroit application of his left foot 
stopped the fellow midway. 

It was a great blow, and won much ap- 
plause from the lookers-on, who com- 
plained no more. Andre contented him- 
self with simply parrying his opponent’s 
blows, who knocked over a stove, pulled 
down some glasses, and succeeded finally 
in bringing the proprietor to the scene of 
action. 

‘‘Clear out, fellows ! ” he cried, ‘‘and 
never show your faces here again.” 

At this word the blackguard broke out 
into invectives. 

“You are too patient!” cried some of 
the customers to the proprietor. “ Why 
don’t you send at once for the police?” 

A messenger was despatched, and they 
appeared as by enchantment ; and, before 
he had time to breathe, Andre found him- 
self in the boulevard between two police- 
men, and his late adversary between two 
more. 

“Keep a civil .tongue in your head,” 
said one of the sergeants. 

To resist would have been sheer f olljr ; 
and the young painter resigned himself to 
the inevitable. But, as he went on he 
ruminated on this strange scene. It had 
been so rapid that, as yet, he did not see 
it clearly. He, nevertheless, felt certain 
that this brutal aggression concealed some 
motive he had not yet fathomed. 

The police had stopped before the nar- 
row entrance to an old house, and they 
ordered their prisoners to go on in front. 

They did so, and Andre saw that it was 
not to the station that they were being 
conducted. 

The party entered an office, where a 
secretary and two employes were at work. 

Andre opened his eyes. This was cer- 
tainly a most extraordinary arrest. 

The blackguard who had quarreled with 
him, on entering the bureau changed his 
manner and appearance entirely. He 
threw his hat on a bench, gave his hair a 
little rub up, and shook hands with the 
secretary. 

The blackguard went toward Andre. 
“ Permit me, sir,” he said, to congratu- 
late you on having a good stout fist of 
your own. You came near killing me.” 

A door opened and a voice said: “Send 
them in ! ” 

Andre was pushed by his recent adver- 
sary through this door into a narrow cor- 
ridor, and found himself presently in a 
room which seemed to be the private 
office of the chief of police. At the right, 
before a desk in front of a window, sat a 
man of distingue appearance, wearing 
a white cravat and gold spectacles. 

“ Have the goodness to be seated,” said 
this gentleman, with the most exquisite 
politeness. 

The artist took a chair in. a semi-stupe- 
fied condition and waited. 

Was he dreaming? Was he awake? He 


was uncertain. He doubted himself, 
his own intelligence, even the testimony 
of his senses. 

Before proceeding further,” said the 
gentleman with gold spectacles, “ I ought 
to beg your pardon for this proceeding, 
which is a little — well, what shall I say ? 
a little cavalier — that I have rpade use of 
to obtain the pleasure of a conversation 
with you. But I really had no choice. 
You are closely watched, and I did not 
wish these people to suspect our confer- 
ence.” 

“ I am watched ! ” stammered Andre. 

“ Yes, by a certain La Candile, a bright 
fellow; in" fact, I may say the brightest 
fellow for that sort of work in Paris. 
Does this astonish you?” 

“ Yes, for I thought ” 

The gentleman smiled benevolently. 

“ You thought,” he interrupted, “ that 
you had succeeded in eluding your spies. 
So I supposed this morning, when I saw 
you in your present disguise. You will 
allow me, my dear Monsieur Andre, to tell 
you that your disguise leaves much to be 
desired. The first efibrt, I admit, of a man 
in a new trade, is always to be viewed 
with indulgence. But La Candile would 
not be taken in. Even at this distance. I 
myself can de ect your entire ‘makeup.’ 
What 1 see, others, of course, can see as 
well.” 

He rose and went to Andre : 

Why on earth,” he said, “ should you 
cover your face with all these colors, which 
make you look like a North American In- 
dian in his war-paint? In order to change 
an entire countenance only two strokes of 
a crayon are necessary, red or black — 
here at the eyebrows, and there at the nos- 
trils, and again at the corners of the 
mouth. See here ” 

He joined to theory a practical demon- 
stration. He had taken from his pocket a 
pretty gold pencil-case, and, as he spoke, 
he corrected the work of the young artist. 

When he finished, Andre rose and went 
to the mirror over the chimney to look. 
He was positively startled at the result. 

“Now, do you understand,” continued 
the unknown gentlemen, ‘‘ the futility of 
your attempts? La Candile knew you in- 
stantly. I wished to speak to you, so I 
sent for Palot, one of my agents, and 
bade him pick a quarrel with you. Two 
policemen then arrested you, and you 
reached me without a person knowing that 
we saw each other. Have the goodness to 
efface my touches — they will be seen 
when you go out, and will awaken suspi- 
cion.” 

Andre obeyed, and while he rubbed 
away with the comer of his handkerchief, 
his bewildered mind sought some elucida- 
tion of this mystery. 

The man with the gold spectacles had 
resumed his seat in his arm-chair, and was 
taking snuff, with an air that the most fin- 


258 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


nished actor at the Com^die Francaise 
might have envied. 

Kow,” he said, we will talk a little 
together, if you please.” 

‘‘ As you see,” said the singular person- 
age, ‘‘I know you — Dr. Loulleux as- 
serts that he knows no character higher 
than yours — he declares your probity to 
be without a stain, your courage un- 
doubted ” 

My dear sir ” stammered the 

young painter, coloring high. 

‘‘ Let me go on. Monsieur Gandelu 
tells me that he would be willing to con- 
fide his whole fortune to you ; while your 
comrades, one and all — Vignol at the 
head — have the highest respect for you. 
This is for the present. As to the fu- 
ture, two painters of the greatest renown 
assert that you will one day stand at the 
head of the French school. At this mo- 
ment, work brings you in about fifteen 
francs per day. Am I correct in my in- 
formation?” 

“Entirely so,” stammered the bewil- 
dered Andre. 

The gentleman smiled. 

“ Unfortunately,” he continued,” my in- 
formation ends here. The means of inves- 
tigation in the hands of the police are 
necessarily very limited, they can act only 
on facts, and not on intentions. So long 
as the will is not manifested by acts, the 
police are helpless; and it must always 
be so until a detective finds some way of 
taking off the top of a man’s head, as he 
would the cover of a box, and, looking 
down into it, see what is going on there. 
I heard of you not more than forty-eight 
hours ago for the first time, and I already 
have j^our biography in my pocket. 1 
know that day before yesterday you were 
walking with young Gandelu, driving with 
Monsieur de Breulh-Faverlay, and that La 
Candile was behind your carriage. These 
are all facts, but ” 

He checked himself, riveting on Andre 
a steady look, as if he wished to magnet- 
ize him ; and then, with slow and meas- 
ured voice, he continued : 

“ But no one has been able to tell me 
why you followed Verminet, or why you 
watched Mascarot’s house, or why, finally 
you adopt a disguise to spy out the move- 
ments of the most honorable Marquis de 
Croisenois. It is the motive we can't get 
at — the facts are clear.” 

Andre moved restlessly on his chair, dis- 
turbed by those magnetic eyes, which 
seemed to draw the truth from him with- 
out his volition. “ I cannot, sir,” he said, 
at last — “ I really cannot. It is a secret, 
which does not belong to me.” 

“ You do not choose to trust me? Very 
well, then, I will speak. Remember that 
I have told you all 1 knew positively, but 
I have drawn my inferences and deduc- 
tions. You watch De Croisenois. Because 
he is to marry a rich heiress. 


Andre was scarlet. 

We conclude, then,” continued his 
companion, “ that you wish to prevent 
this marriage — and why? Of course, 
then, there is something more. I have 
heard that Mademoiselle de Mussidan was 
at one time to marry Monsieur de Breulh- 
Faverlay. Why do the Comte and Com- 
tesse de Mussidan prefer a ruined Marquis 
to one of the most remarkable men of the 
his day? That is for you to tell me, pos- 
sibly. It is clear to me, that they give 
their daughter to Croisenois on compul- 
sion of some kind. What does this sig- 
nify? Simply that there is some terrible 
secret which Croisenois holds over their 
heads.” 

“ Your theory is at fault, sir ! ” ex- 
claimed Andre. “You are wrong — en- 
tirely wrong.” 

“ Good ! ” he said calmly. “ If you cry 
out with such superfluous energy tiiat I 
am wrong, it is because you know me to 
be right. I need no proofs. Yesterday 
Monsieur de Mussidan paid you a visit, 
and my agent said that his face was much 
brighter when he came out than when he 
went in, consequently, I infer that you 
promised to rid him of Croisenois, and he, 
in turn, agreed to give you his daughter. 
And this explains 5 mur present blouse and 
cap. Say again, if you dare, that I am 
wrong ! ” 

The young painter could not lie; and 
therefore could not speak. 

“ And the secret,” continued the gentle- 
man — “ did not the Comte tell you the se- 
cret ? I do not know it, and yet I think were 
I to seek for it, I could find it. I know of 
crimes, apparently forgotten, which three 
generations of detectives have worked at. 
For example, did you ever hear that your 
Croisenois had a brother named George — 
older than himself? This George disap- 
peared one fine evening in a most myste- 
rious way. What became of him? This 
very George, twenty-three years ago, was 
a friend of Madame de Mussidan. Might 
not that disappearance account for this 
marriage?” 

“ Who are you? ” cried the young artist. 

“ 1 am Monsieur Lecoq. ” 

At the name of this celebrated detective 
Andre recoiled in absolute terror. 

“Monsieur Lecoq! ” he stammered. 

The vanity of this Parisian celebrity 
was excessively tickled when he saw the 
impression produced by his name. 

And now that you know me, dear Mon- 
sieur Andre, may I not ve.iture to hope 
that you will be more reasonable. ” 

Monsieur de Mussidan had not confided 
his secret to the young painter, but he 
said preciselj’’ enough for him to feel that 
the man of the Rue de Jerusalem was not 
far from the truth. 

“If we could only understand each 
other, fully, ” continued Lecoq; “and 
upon my word, it seems to me that my 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS. 


259 


frankness should elicit yours. I saw you 
watched by the very people I was watch- 
ing. For several days my spies have been 
at your heels ; and to-day 1 have decided 
that it is you who can furnish the denoue- 
ment that J seek. ” 

‘‘I — sir?” 

‘‘■For several years,” said Lecoq, “I 
have been certain that an organized asso- 
ciation for blackmailing existed in this 
city. Family differences, sorrows, and 
shame, imprudences, and the like, are to 
them absolute gold-mines, and they make 
at least one hundred thousand francs per 
annum. ” 

“ Ah ! ” murmured Andre, “ 1 suspected 
something of this kind.” 

“ Of course, when 1 was quite sure of 
my facts, 1 said to myself : ‘ These are the 
people 1 will pounce upon.’ But this was 
easier said than done. Blackmailing, you 
see, has one peculiarity : those who prac- 
tice it feel well nigh certain of impunity. 
Ask you for a thousand francs, threaten- 
ing to divulge some secret which will cover 
you either with shame or ridicule, you will 
pay and keep still. Twenty times 1 have 
put my finger on these plucked pigeons ; 
but 1 could not induce one of them to fur- 
nish me with arms against the scoun- 
drels. ” 

He was so indignant against these 
people who had doubted him, and he was 
so comical in his indignation, that Andre 
smiled. 

” Soon, ” he continued, “ I learned to 
recognize the inanity of all these efforts, 
and the impossibility of reaching the 
scoundrels through their victims. I prom- 
ised myself, then, to arrive at their victims 
through them, but this requires both time 
and patience. For this 1 have watched 
and waited three j^ears; for eighteen 
months one of my agents has been em- 
ployed as a servant by Monsieur de Croise- 
nois. At this very moment this band of 
brigands costs ‘the house’ at least ten 
thousand francs. ” 

The house ” the young painter took 
to be the establishment which is entered 
from the Rue de Jerusalem. 

“ Yes, ten thousand francs,” said Lecoq, 
“ to say nothing of the oaths I have ut- 
tered. To that villain, Mascarot, I am 
indebted for at least a dozen white hairs. 
I believe him to be Tantaine — yes, and 
Martin Regal also. The idea of a door of 
communication between the house of the 
banker in the Rue Montmartre and that of 
the intelligence office in the Rue Montor- 
^eil, did not come to me until this morn- 
ing. But this time,” Lecoq continued, 
after a pause — “this time they have gone 
too far, and 1 have them. The idea of a 
company, the stock of which is to be 
bought by their dupes, is not so bad after 
all. 1 know them all, root and branch, 
from their chief — Mascarot, Regal, or 
Tantaine, whichever you please to call 


him — down to Toto-Chupin, their young- 
est agent, and to Paul, the docile instru- 
ment of their will. We will snare the 
whole band. We may get hold of Van 
Klopen. Catenae, too, shall not escape. 
Just at this moment he is traveling in the 
country near Vendome, with the Due de 
Champdoce and a fellow by the name of 
Perpignan. Two of my guardian angels 
are at the heels of this party, and send 
me news of their progress almost hourly. 
My trap is well baited, and well set, and 
will catch them all. And now, do you 
still hesitate to confide to me what you 
know? I swear to you, on my honor, to 
respect your confidence, no matter what 
occurs.” 

Andre submitted, as all others did who 
approached this singular man, to his mag- 
netic influence. What he hid from him 
to-day would not Lecoq know to-morrow? 

With the most absolute frankness, he 
told the story, and all he knew. 

“Now,” cried Lecoq, I see all clearly 
before me. Ah! They wish to compel 
Gandelu to go off with Rose, do they ? ” 

IKs eyes flashed under his gold specta- 
cles ; he seemed to be arranging his bat- 
tle-field. 

“Fiom this moment,” he said, “you 
may sleep in peace. In another momth 
Mademoiselle de Mussidan will be your 
wife. This I promise you. And when 
Lecoq promises, he means what he says.” 

He stopped ani thought a moment, and 
then went on more slowly. 

“ I answer for everything, sir, except 
for your life. So many immense interests 
are concentrated on your head that every 
means will be tried to get rid of you. Do 
not forget yourself for one moment; do 
not eat twice in succession at the same 
restaurant ; throw away any food that has 
any peculiar flavor; keep away from all 
crowds in the street; don't enter a car- 
riage ; take care and do not lean from a 
winlow without ascertaining that the 
supports arc solid. In a word, fear every- 
thing, suspect everything.” 

Lecoq detained him for a moment longer. 

“Tell me,” he said, “ have you, by any 
chance, on your shoulder or arm a wound 
or scar? ” 

“Yes sir, I have, indeed — the scar of a 
very severe burn.'’ 

“ So T supposed,” he said, quietly; “ so 
I supposed.” And as he pushed the young 
painter gently from the office, he saluted 
him with the same words so often ad- 
dressed by Mascarot to his protege, Paul : 
“Au revoir. my lord. Due de Champdoce I ” 


CHAPTER LX. 

Andre turned hastily, but the door was 
closed, and he heard the key turn in the 
lock. 

He was now in the outer room, and the 


260 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


secretary, the two employes, and his 
former adversary looked at him, not with 
distrust, but with a smile. He hurried 
through the room with a word or two 
that was quite unintelligible. 

What did those last words, that Parthean 
dart of Lecoq's, mean? 

Now Andre was clear-headed, but Andre 
was a foundling. 

Was there ever one of these unfortu- 
nates, who has not said to himself that 
perhaps he belongs to a noble family ? 

Immediately after the young painter had 

one out Lecoq opened his door and called 

is agent. 

Palot rose and ran with that haste which 
is more than obedience, and which shows 
the absolute devotion of the subordinate 
to a superior. 

“ My boy,” said the detective, “ you saw 
that young man who just went out?” 

Yes, sir.” 

“ Well, he is a most worthy fellow, with 
both heart and courage. He is honest as 
the day, and true as steel. I esteem him 
thoroughly. He is my friend.” 

Palot made a little gesture that signified 
that the young man was henceforward a 
sacred being. 

‘‘You will watch him,” said Lecoq, 
“near enough to defend him in case of 
danger. That Mascarot band want his 
skin. You are the most to be depended 
on of all my assistants, and I trust him to 
you. He is warned, but he lacks expe- 
rience. You will see danger where he 
would never dream of any. If there is 
any trouble throw yourself into the breach, 
but try not to let any one discover who 
and what you are. If any emergency 
arises, which compels you to speak to him, 
do so; but only as a last extremity. 
Whisper in his ear the name ‘ Janoville,’ 
and he will understand that you come from 
me. Now, remember, you are to answer 
for him. But these spies must not recog- 
nize in you the man of this morning’s 
quarrel. They would divine all. How 
are you dressed under that blouse?” 

“ In my uniform as commissioner.” 

“ Good. Now arrange yourself, and be 
particular in regard to your head.” 

Palot went to the mirror and pulled out 
a small bundle from his pocket, which 
bundle proved to be a red beard and a wig 
of the same color, which he arranged with 
that dexterity which comes from habit. 

In twenty minutes he went to his mas- 
ter, who was writing, and said : 

“ How will this do ? ” 

“ Not bad ! ” The fact is, the man was 
the ideal commissioner, and any Auvergnat 
would have saluted him instantly as from 
his own province. 

“Where shall I find this lad, sir?” he 
asked. 

Somewhere near Mascarot’s den, for I 
advised him not to relinquish his role of 
spy without my orders. Hurry up ! ” 


Palot was off like a fiash ; and when he 
reached the Rue Montmartre he saw the 
person whom he had been enjoined to pro- 
tect. 

Andre was walking slowly along, repeat- 
ing to himself the advice of Monsieur 
Lecoq on the necessity of always being 
on the lookout for his adversaries, when a 
young man with his arm in a sling passed 
him, going in the same direction as him- 
self. 

Andre was certain that this youth was 
Paul, but as he was sure of not being rec- 
ognized, he hurried by him in his turn. It 
was, indeed, the lover so much regretted 
by Rose-Gora. 

By a phenomenon that is not uncommon 
when the mind is concentiated on one 
single fact, he had an intuition of the 
truth, but it came and went like a fiash of 
lightning. 

"" At least,” he thought, “ I can discover 
where he goes.” 

He followed him, and saw him enter the 
house of Monsieur Martin Regal. 

Two women were talking by the door, 
and Andre heard one of them say : 

“That is the young man who is en- 
gaged to Mademoiselle Plavia, the banker’s 
daughter.” 

Then Paul was to marry the daughter 
of the chief of this association? Did Le- 
coq know this detail? Yes, of course he 
must. Nevertheless, Andre said he would 
write and tell him this ; for the detective 
had given him his address. He lived in 
this same Rue Montmartre, only two steps 
from Martin Regal’s house. 

But time was fiying, and Andre realized 
that he had only time to hurry to the 
Champs Elysees — to the house that Gan- 
delu was building — if he wished to catch 
Vignol, the friend of whom he wished to 
ask hospitality. 

He made such haste that all the work- 
men were still there whea he reached the 
place. His comrades were not as lynx- 
eyed as Mascarot’s agents, and not one of 
them knew him when he asked for Vignol. 

“ He is up there,” they said, “ at work 
on the front; take the staircase on the 
left.” 

This front was the important work, and 
it was before this that the little cabin was 
erected. 

Vignol was there alone when Andre 
entered, and he uttered an exclamation of 
astonishment when his friend named him- 
self. He did not recognize his old friend 
under his disguise. 

As was only natural, Vignol was eager 
for an explanation. 

It is nothing of any consequence,” re- 
plied the young painter carelessly; “only 
a little love aflair.” 

‘* Was it to win a girl’s heart that you 
have made such a guy of yourself? ” said 
his friend, with a laugh. 

“Hush! I will explain another time,” 


THE SLAVES OF FABIS, 


261 


answered Andre. ‘‘ I came to ask if you 
could lodge me ” 

He checked himself, listened a moment, 
and became frightfully pale; he fancied 
he heard his name, a scream, and then the 
word Sabine. 

He was not mistaken. The same voice 
— a woman’s voice, despairing and deso- 
late — repeating the cry. 

Andre ! it is I — Sabine — help ! ” 

Prompt as lightning the young painter 
rushed to the window, opened it and 
leaned out. Alas! Toto-Chupin won the 
bank-note of a thousand francs from 
Father Tantaine. The supports yielded 
with a loud crack, and Andre was launched 
into space. The cabin was twenty metres 
at least from the pavement. The* fall was 
appalling, and all the more frightful, be- 
cause at least two seconds intervened 
between the time that Andre fell and his 
body reached the ground, mutilated and 
bleeding. 

Two seconds — two centuries of frightful 
agony — an eternity I 

In this brief period he fully realized the 
trap into which he had fallen — he appre- 
ciated the blow that h id struck him down 
in full life and happiness. 

And during these two seconds a world of 
thought traversed his brain. All his past, 
from the moment that he had left the hos- 
pital, appeared before him; and in the 
future — that intolerable future — he saw 
Sabine in the arms of the Marquis de 
Croisenois. 

His last thought was of Sabine. 

And Mascarot, the wretch, triumphed I 

In the Champs Elysees at least three 
hundred persons witnessed this frightful 
sight. 

At Vignol’s cry everybody stopped, and 
frozen with horror they watched. They 
lost not one detail. 

Falling head first, Andre struck first 
against one of the cross-beams which sup- 
ported the scafiblding. From below his 
hands were seen desperately clutching at 
the empty air. He tried to clutch some- 
thing — the corner of a plank, an end of 
a rope — he would have snatched at a bar 
of red hot iron. But he caught nothing, 
and five metres lower he was dashed 
against a stone window-sill; from there 
he bounded to the first fioor of the scaf- 
fold. The elastic planks bent under his 
weight, and then with a rebound, threw 
him far into the street, not on the bitu- 
men, but in the sand. 

Then the crowd uttered a simultaneous 
outcry, and a compact circle formed 
around the poor creature, who lay an in- 
ert, unsconscious mass, in a pool of blood ; 
but the workmen, headed by Vignol, who 
at last made them understand that this 
stranger was their beloved Andre, were 
eoon there also, and pushed aside the cu- 
rxous individuals, who moved by unhealthy 
curiosity, crowded around to see if a per- 


son who had fallen a hundred metres was 
yet alive. 

Alas ! poor Andre gave no sign of life. 

His face was frightfully bruised, his 
eyes were closed, while a stream of blood 
poured from his mouth, as Vignol, pale as 
death, lifted his head and supported it on 
his knee. 

Oh, he is dead ! ” said the bystanders ; 
‘‘ he will never come to ! ” 

The workmen were not listening — they 
were deciding among themselves what had 
best be done. 

‘‘ He must be taken to the Hospital Beau- 
jon,” said Vignol; we are not two steps 
from there.” 

A man had run to the nearest station and 
given the alarm, and one of those dreary 
litters, covered with striped cotton, which 
are seen only too often in the streets of 
Paris, speedily arrived. 

The workmen laid their friend on the 
mattress, and then two of them asked per- 
mission to carry the litter to the hospital. 
The crowd who were less occupied had 
noticed one incident, and had been consid- 
erably puzzled by it. Just as Andre fell, 
a commissioner rushed at a young woman 
who was passing — she was one of those 
wretched creatures who sweep the Champs 
Elysees with their trailing skirts all day 
long. It was she who cried out. 

At the sight of this man, who came down 
on her like a tornado, the woman tried to 
escape, but he caught her arm. 

‘‘ Hold your tongue ! ” he said, sternly, 

His voice, his gesture, and his look, filled 
the creature with abject terror, and sho 
obeyed ; she neither moved nor spoke. 

Why did you call?” asked the com- 
missioner. 

‘‘I do not know.” 

‘‘ You lie.” 

‘‘Ko; I swear that it is the truth. A 
gentleman came to me a minute ago, and 
he said to me, ‘ Madame, if you will call 
out twice, with an interval of a half min- 
ute: “ Andre, it is I, Sabine! Help!” I 
will give you two louis.’ Of course I 
agreed ; he handed me forty francs, and I 
did what he wished.” 

‘‘ And what sort of a looking man was 
this gentleman? ” 

He was tall and old, very shabby and 
dirty, and wearing green spectacles. But 
I never saw him before.” 

The commissioner thought for a mo- 
ment. 

‘"Do you know, wretch!” he said at 
last, “that those words you have just ut- 
tered have, perhaps, caused the death of a 
man — the death of the poor fellow who 
has just fallen from the top of that house?” 

“What did he go there for?” she 
asked. 

This stupid indifterence so exasperated 
the commissioner that without another 
word he dragged the woman to the police- 
man and gave her in charge. 


262 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


‘‘Take her to the station house,” he 
said, “ and do not lose sight of her, for she 
is an important witness at a forthcoming 
trial.” 

This commissioner was Lecoq’s faithful 
agent. 

“What the woman says is true,” he 
thought. “ She did not know what she 
was doing, and it was Tantaine who gave 
her the two louis. He shall pay for this. 
But, unfortunately, if the whole banditti 
are hung, it won’t bring life back to this 
poor young fellow.” 

But Palot had not much time to think 
now. He must gather all his testimony. 

How had this accident happened? 

To ascertain was easy. The frame of 
the window of the little cabin had fallen 
with Andre, and lay in pieces on the side- 
walk. Palot picked up one of these 
pieces. 

The crime which he had suspected was 
thereby made manifest 

The plank had been sawed on both sides, 
and still preserved traces of the plaster 
with which the marks of the saw had 
been concealed. 

This was a bit of circumstantial evi- 
, dence too important to be neglected. 

’ The commissioner then summoned one 
of the workmen, whose face indicated 
especial intelligence, and after pointing 
out to him these facts, he bade him take 
possession of the planks and put them into 
a place of security. 

‘"Take the best care of them,” he said; 
“they will be needed at the inquest.” 

This duty fulfilled, Palot could at last 
join the group of curious spectators. But 
Andre had been carried away. He was too 
late. 

He looked about him, wondering of 
whom he had best ask information, when, 
on a bench near by he caught sight of a 
fellow whom he had more than once fol- 
lowed. 

Master Toto no longer wore the sordid 
rags of the previous evening. He was 
clothed from head to foot in the newest 
raiment ; but his usually pale face was now 
livid, his eyes were wild, and his jaw was 
working convulsively. These circumstan- 
ces struck Palot forcibly. 

Toto-Chupin was struggling in the grasp 
of a sentiment that was new to him. 

While Lecoq’s agent was thus watching 
him, the boy was deliberating whether he 
should not go and give himself up at the 
nearest police-station, because he wished 
to avenge himself on Tantaine, who had 
made him an assassin. The idea of taking 
possession of Toto-Chupin occurred to 
Palot. 

“ No! ” he said to himself, “ that would 
not do. I should risk the loss of the 
whole band. He can’t get away. We 
can lay our hands on him when we need 
him. Perhaps even I made a mistake in 
arresting that woman.” 


He then asked several questions, and 
finally gathered that the injured man had 
probably been taken to the Hospice Beau- 
jon. 

What will my master say? That I am 
not fit to be trusted! And he is right. 
He entrusted one of his friends to my 
charge, and 1 did not defend him. I am 
forever disgraced. Did 1 not know that 
the life of this youth hung on a thread, 
and yet I allowed him to enter a house 
that was being built? I might have just 
as well killed him with my own hand! ” 

Trembling from head to foot, Palot pre- 
sented himself at the hospital and asked 
for a young man who had been brought 
in within the half hour. 

“ You mean number seventeen,” said 
the assistant surgeon; “he is in a most 
deplorable state. We fear internal injury 
— a fracture of the scull — in short, we 
fear everything.” 

It was not until two days had elapsed 
that Andre knew what had happened. 

The poor fellow recovered his con- 
sciousness in the middle of the night. 
The faint rays of a night lamp lighted the 
large ward of the hospital ; at a glance he 
knew where he was. Pain came only 
when he tried to turn in his bed, and yet 
he could move his legs and one arm. 

“How long have 1 been here? ” he said 
to himself. 

He tried to think, but his thoughts were 
as vacillating as those of a man who has 
been under the influence of chloroform for 
some time, and he fell asleep. 

When he awoke it was broad day, and 
the ward was full of life and motion. It 
was the hour that the surgeon made his 
rounds. 

The surgeon-in-chief was a man still 
young, with a bright, kind face. He went 
from bed to bed, followed by twenty stu- 
dents — demonstrating, lecturing, and giv- 
ing to his patients words of kindly greet- 
ing. Andre's turn came. The surgeon 
told him that he had a shoulder out of 
joint, an arm broken in two places, a cut 
on his head, and that his bod}'- was one 
contusion, but that he was a lucky fellow 
to have escaped so well. 

Andre listened with only a dim concep- 
tion of the meaning of the words he heard. 
With returning reason had come the re- 
membrance of Sabine, and he asked him- 
self, with a sinking of the heart, what 
would happen while he was there, nailed 
to his bed. 

This thought caused him to utter a faint 
groan. One of the students, a stout per- 
son, with red whiskers, a large cravat, and 
an old-fashioned hat, who looked like a 
respectable country practitioner, came to- 
ward his bed, and leaning over the young 
artist, murmured: 

Janoviile! ” 

At this name, which had been agreed 
upon with jVJpnsieur Lecoq, Andre started. 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


263 


The young painter could not believe his 
eyes. The art of disguise, risen to a 
height like this, became genius. 

Monsieui* Lecoq ! ” he gasped. 

“ Hush ! who can tell who is watching 
us? Quick — only two words — I came to 
tranquilize your mind, which will do more 
for your recovery than all the medicine 
you can take. Without committing you 
in any way, I have seen Monsieur de 
Mussidan, and have furnished him with a 
pretext for postponing the marriage of his 
daughter to Monsieur de Croisenois for 
another month. You, in the meantime, 
will remain here — you could not be in a 
safer place. You might be taken in an- 
other snare. Even here you cannot be too 
cautious. Eat nothing that is not brought 
by some one with our word. Do not speak 
to a living soul. Monsieur Gandelu will 
imdoubtedlj^ come to see you. If you 
wish to write to me apply to the sick man 
on your rigjht ; he is one of my men. You 
will hear from me every day, and you must 
be prudent an 1 patient.” 

‘‘lean wait,” mm’mured Andre, “be- 
cause I hope ! ” 

“Ah I ” murmured Lecoq, as he moved 
away with head slightly bowed — “ ah ! is 
not that the whole of life?” 


CHAPTER LXI. 

Ip Monsieur Lecoq enjoined prudence 
and patience on Andre, and to his agents 
the most excessive discretion, it was be- 
cause he did ample justice to the extraor- 
dinary ability and cunning of his 
adversaries. 

“It is not a good plan,” he frequently 
said, “to chatter or make much noise 
when one goes fishing.” 

He could prove that the head of this 
band — he who concealed his purposes and 
pursuits under a triple personality — was 
the instigator of a murder. 

But Lecoq did not care to utilize this 
discovery at once. He had sworn that he 
would catch the whole band. 

And his investigations had been so se- 
cretly conducted, the net-work he had 
wrapped around the association so delicate, 
that they suspected nothing whatever. 

The day after the accident Mascarot 
wrote to the chief of police a letter, in 
which he denounced Toto, and gave indi- 
cations by which he could be found. 

“Toto,” he thought, “will not fail to 
disclose the part played by Tantaine ; but 
that good man no longer exists, and I do 
not think that the police, even, will be 
able to resuscitate him.” 

He had lighted a huge fire and burned 
to the very last thread the ra^ and tatters 
which he wore as the old cleSr. 

He laughed at the success^ of his ruse, 
watching, as he did so, the thick smoke 
that rose. 


“ Look for him as much as you please, 
good friends. Toto’s accomplice has gone 
up the chimney ! ” 

The next thing was to get rid of Mas- 
carot, which was a more delicate and difii- 
cult operation. The clerk had been an old 
nomad, and no one would trouble himself 
about him ; but Mascarot managed a pros- 
perous business. His disappearance would 
make a sensation — the police would take 
the matter in hand. 

The simplest thing was to make open 
arrangements for departure, family affairs 
forcing him to sell out his business. 

This puchaser he soon found, and in 
twenty-four hours the transaction was 
completed. 

Mascarot had much to do the night 
which preceded the tenancy of his suc- 
cessor. 

Aided by Beaumarchef, he carried into 
the private ofiice of Martin Regal the 
papers which crowded the agency. This 
moving was executed by means of a door, 
01* rather hole covered by a huge placard, 
which formed a direct communication be- 
tween the intelligence office and the cabi- 
net of the banker. 

When the last scrap of paper was car- 
ried off, Mascarot showed his faithful 
Beaumarchef a pile of bricks and a bag of 
mortar. 

The task of filling up this hole was fa- 
tiguing; but at last it would have been 
ditficult to distinguish the new bricks from 
the old. 

Then followed a heart-breaking scene. 
Beaumarchef had received, the evening 
before, a sum of twelve thousand francs, 
on the condition that he would go at once 
to America. The time of his departure 
had arrived, and the poor fellow wept hot 
tears on leaving the master, whom he 
had served with unparallelled ardor. He 
knew comparatively little of the iniquities 
going on around him. 

Mascarot was in haste. The floors of 
this house burned his feet. He had anni- 
hilated Tantaine in order to disembarrass 
himself of Toto. Should he be suspected? 
Then farewell also, to his last personality, 
the one which he had selected as the safe- 
est assurance of an honored old age. 

He must, however, first put his suc- 
cessor into the business. He explained 
his books and rules — in fact, showed the 
working of the machinery which he had 
just sold. These occupations consumed 
the better part of the day, so it was after 
four when his trunks were put on a fiacre 
which he had ordered. 

Alrea ;y there WuS a sign on the door: 
“I. Robinet, successor to B. Mascarot.” 

Knowing, as he did how trifles bear on 
great events, he drove to the Western 
Railway, and took his place in a train 
bound for Rouen. 

He was uncomfortable, for he had taken 
it into his head that he was watched, and 


264 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS. 


he determined not to leave one clew be- 
hind by which he could be traced. 

At Rouen he stopped with his trunks 
and effects, and managed them so that, as 
he believed, they could never furnish any 
proof against him. 

At Rouen, too, he left his beard and 
spectacles, and obliterated B. Mascarot, 
as he had already obliterated Tantaine, 
and when, the next day, he returned to 
the Rue Montmartre — to his banking 
office — only one person existed of the 
three who had toiled for twenty years, 
and that was Martin Regal, the father of 
the pretty coquette Flavia — the respect- 
able, steady old banker with the bald head 
and face guiltless of hair. 

He had not noticed a younger man in 
the train — a young man of very dark com- 
plexion with quick, flashing eyes and mo- 
bile lips — looking like the traveling 
agent of a respectable business house. 

When he was in his own house again, 
after tenderly embracing his beloved Fla- 
via, who ran to meet him on his return 
after a brief absence, Mascarot, or rather 
Martin Regal, went to his private room — 
the key of which never left him. 

He beheld a large space, not covered 
with the paper which decorated the other 
parts of the room. It was the wrong side 
of the work executed with such haste in 
the intelligence office. 

‘"This will never do!” muttered the 
banker — “ it must be flnished with plas- 
ter, and then re-papered.” 

Without delay, he gathered up the bits 
of mortar on the floor and threw them into 
the flre-place, where he pulverized and 
mixed them with cinders. He swept up 
the dust, and on his hands and knees care- 
fully rubbed the carpet to take away any 
spots that remained. Then before this im- 
perfectly concealed opening he pushed a 
large screen, which had always stood there . 
and which he had been in the habit of mov- 
ing as he went in and out. 

He was glorying in the success won by 
his courage and his audacity, when the 
smiling Hortebise entered the room. 

“Now then, skeptic,” he cried, before 
the door had fairly closed, “ do you still 
doubt? At last you have fortune within 
your very grasp. " What have you to say of 
Baptiston and" of Tantaine? They are 
dead, or rather, they never existed. Beau- 
marchef is to-day on the deck of a trans- 
atlantic steamer; La Candele will be in 
London in a week. Now we may expect 
millions.” 

“God grant it I” answered the doctor, 
piously. 

“ Has he not granted it already? ” 

“Pshaw! We have nothing more to 
fear ; and you would say the same if you 
knew all the points of the case as well as 
myself. Who was the enemy we had most 
reason to fear? Andre. He is not dead, 
to be sure, but he is laid up for a month or 


more, and that is enough. Besides that, 
he has given up the contest. I received, 
day before yesterday, a report from one of 
our men, who succeeded in getting into 
the hospital, and this intelligent observer 
assures me that the artist has not received 
a visit nor written a line in the whole fif- 
teen days which have elapsed since he re- 
gained his consciousness.” 

“ He had friends, though? ” 

“ Have you any friends who would 
trouble themselves about you after a mis- 
fortune and fifteen days of absence ? Your 
simplicity is refreshing ! Who are these 
friends? Monsieur de Breulh-Faverlay ? — 
this is race week ; he does not move from 
his stables. Madame de Bois d’Ardon? — 
the new spring fashions are enough to fill 
her empty brain. Monsieur Gandelu? — 
his son is enough to keep him occupied. 
There is no one else of any consequence.” 

“ And young Monsieur Gandelu? ” 

“ He has yielded to the thousand reasons 
advanced by Tantaine; he is reconciled 
with the charming Rose, and they have 
both taken flight for Florence.” 

All this did not altogether dissipate the 
cloud which obscured the doctor’s brow. 

“ The Mussidan family troubles me,” he 
said. 

“And why, pray? Croisenois has been 
received in a very courteous way, I assure 
you. I don’t say that Mademoiselle Sabine 
has fallen into his arms, but she thanks him 
graciously every evening for the bouquet 
which he sends every morning. What 
more can you expect?” 

“ I should prefer that the Count had not 
postponed the marriage of his daughter 
and our dear Marquis. Why did he? It 
troubles me, I confess.” 

“ It annoys me, but that is all. Be tran* 
quil; the trouble is all over; I have 
thoroughly investigated everything. Why 
can’t you be as content as I am?” 

The banker had, by this time, succeeded 
in infusing into the mind of Dr. Hortebise 
something of the ^assurance which ani- 
mated himself. 

“ Everything is going well, even to the 
afiairs of the mines of Tifila; and our 
people have done well. I have taxed each 
according to his means — some one thou- 
sand, some twenty thousand francs — and 
we are promised at least a million.” 

“ And with us,” murmured the doctor, 
“ to promise means something.” 

“Precisely; and your part of this en- 
terprise will be at least a million.” 

The doctor rubbed his hand at this magic 
word. 

A million ! What an infinite perspective 
of delicious dinners and exquisite joys 
stretched out before him ! 

“I have seen Catenae,” resumed Martin 
Regal, “ since he returned from Vendome, 
and all was carried out as I ordered and 
predicted. The Due de Champdoce is wild 
with impatience and hope, and is on the 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


265 


track which he thinks will take him to his 
son. And, doctor, I look on this false 
clew as absolutely my chef-d' osuvre. The 
mere idea is as good as all that it brings to 
us.” 

‘‘And Perpignan? What do you pro- 
pose to do with him ? ” 

The banker shrugged his shoulders with 
profound contempt. 

‘•Perpignan,” he said, “is just as much 
of a dupe as the Due. He imagines that 
he himself has noted on the surface all the 
proofs which I have placed between the 
Hospice de Vendome aud Paul. Day be- 
fore yesterday they interviewed Vig- 
oureux, the former mountebank. He gave 
them the address of old Fritz, the musi- 
cian, and the Due will hunt him up before 
long. But Paul by that time will be my 
daughter’s husband andFlavia will be the 
Duchess de Champdoce, with an income of 
six thousand livres.” 

He checked himself, for there was a gen- 
tle tap at the door, andFlavia entered. 

Flavia was very pretty, but her beauty 
had never been so great as in these days of 
hope and joy, when she fancied she* had 
won the heart of the man she loved, and 
was soon to become his wife. 

She bowed to the doctor in a cordial, 
friendly way, and lightly as a bird flies to 
a swaying branch, she seated herself on 
her father’s knees, and, putting her arms 
around his neck, she embraced him over 
and over again. 

Hortebise looked on, and although the 
sight was no new one to him, he was as- 
tonished — astonished to see the banker so 
thaw under the influence of these sweet 
caresses, that it was almost impossible to 
recognize the man who, ten minutes before, 
had spoken with cool indifierence of a 
murder that he had planned. 

As soon as Flavia appeared, a stupefy- 
ing change took place in him ; all the keen 
intelligence of his face vanished, and in its 
place was a look of delight that was al- 
most simple. 

“ This is a very nice little preface, my 
dear,” he said ; “ the favor is granted, for 
of course you have one to ask — have you 
not, my darling?” 

Mademoiselle Flavia shook her head, 
and in the tone that she would have used 
toward a naughty child, she exclaimed: 

“Oh! what a bad papa! Am I in the 
habit, sir, of selling you my kisses? When 
I want anything, is it necessary for me to 
say anything more than that I want it? ” 

“No, of course not; only ” 

“I came merely to tell you that dinner 
is ready, and that Paul and I are both very 
hungry — and I kissed you only because I 
loved you. Yes, I love you because you 
are good — yes, if I had to choose a father 
from the whole world, I should choose 
you ! ” 

He smiled, half-closing his eyes as a cat 
does when her head is scratched. 


“ But for the last six weeks,” he said, 
“ you have loved me a little less, I fancy.” 

“ No,” she answered, with charming 
naivete, “ not for six weeks — only for 
about flfteen days. 

“ And yet it is more than a month since 
our good friend, the doctor, brought a 
certain young man to dinner.” 

The girl laughed; a pretty, frank, girl- 
ish laugh. 

“ I love you dearly,” she replied, “but 
I love you more for one thing ” 

•‘And what is that? ” 

“Ah! that is a secret; but I will tell 
you all the same. It is only within the 
last fortnight that 1 have realized all your 
goodness. How much trouble you took 
in bringing my artist to your feet. To 
think you put on those wretched clothes, 
that horrid beard, and those spectacles.” 

Martin Begal, at these words, started 
to his feet so abruptly that Flavia was 
nearly thrown to the floor. 

“ What on earth do you mean? ” 

“Do you suppose a father can impose on 
a daughter? Others may not have recog- 
nized you, but I ” 

“ 1 do not understand you, Flavia.” 

“ Do you mean to say,” she asked, flxing 
her eyes upon him, “that you did not 
come to Paul’s the other day, when I was 
there myself? ” 

“ You are crazy — listen to me.” 

“No, papa, 1 will not listen, for I do 
not wish you to tell a story. I am no 
fool, as you know very well. When you 
went out with the doctor I listened at the 
door, and 1 heard a few words you said ; 
and that is not all, for when I came home 
1 hid myself, and I saw you come into this 
room.” 

“ But, Flavia, you have said nothing to 
any one ” 

“No, indeed — certainly not.” 

He breathed again. 

‘‘‘Of course I do not count Paul,” added 
the girl; “ but he is the same as mj^self.” 

“ Unlortunate child!” cried Martin 
Regal. 

His gesture was so terrible, his voice so 
threatening, that, for the first time in her 
life, Flavia was afraid of her father. 

“But what have I done?” she asked, 
with tears in her eyes. “I only said to 
Paul : ‘ Dear friend, we should be mons- 
ters of ingratitude if we did not worship 
our father. You do not know what he 
does for us. He even dresses in rags and 
goes to see you — to ’ ” 

The doctor, who had not spoken, inter- 
rupted Flavia : 

•• And what did Paul say? ” 

“Paul? Oh! he stood fora moment, 
and then shook his head, saying : ‘ I un- 
derstand ! ’ Then he began to laugh as if 
he would kill himself.” 

The banker, who was walking up and 
down his room in great agitation, stopped 
before his daughter. ‘‘And ^ou, poor 


266 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS. 


child,” he said, in a bitter tone, ‘^have not 
understood this langh. Paul, at this very 
moment, thinks you have been my accom- 
plice. You have shown him that it was 
in obedience to your orders that 1 went 
to find him.” 

Well, what then? ” 

‘‘Alas! a man like Paul never loves a 
woman who has sought him. No matter 
how great may her beauty and her love 
be, he will always think and say that she 
threw herself at his head. He will accept 
all her devotion, and make no more re- 
turn than if he were a wooden idol, before 
whom this incense is burned. You do not 
see this? God grant that it may be long 
before this bandage falls from your eyes ! 
Can you not yet read the character of this 
poor, foolish boy, who lacks every manly 
quality — who is inflated by vanity, and 
has neither energy or independence, will 
or heart?” 

•‘Enough!” she said, interrupting him, 
“ enough! I am not such a coward as to 
allow you to insult my husband.” 

He shuddered at the thought that his 
words might cost him his daughter's affec- 
tion. Hortebise interposed. This wise 
doctor put his arm around Flavia's waist, 
and hurried her from the room. 

When he was alone with the banker, he 
said: “I cannot understand your anger. 
It depended on yourself entirely to break 
off this marriage, and you allowed it: 
recriminations are therefore as unecessary 
as they are unwise.” 

“ You speak as if it were nothing,” 
said Regal, “for me to find myself at the 
discretion of this miserable Paul.” 

“ Not more, it seems to me, than before 
your daughter’s indiscretion. Is not Paul 
our accomplice? Are we any the" more 
compromised because he has penetrated 
the mystery of your triple personality? ” 

“Ah! you are not her father! Paul 
until now believed that I did not know 
Mascarot. and that I was the victim of 
blackmailing. As a dupe he respected me ; 
as an accomplice he escapes me ! 1 think 
we must hasten this disastrous marriage.” 

The marriage took place at the end of 
the next week, and Paul left his simple 
bachelor quarters to take possession of the 
magnificent suite of rooms prepared for 
him by the banker under his own roof. 

The transition was abrupt, but Paul was 
no longer astonished at anything. The 
simpleton was so imbued by the theories 
advanced by Mascarot and Dr. Hortebise 
that he was persuaded that adventures 
like his own were common in Paris. 

He had not a shadow of remorse. He 
feared only one thing — that he should 
make some blunder when the hour arrived 
for that decisive scene which should give 
him a high social position and the title of 
Duke. 

When, in the course of the evening, the 
Due de Cliampdoce appeared, followed by 


Perpignan and Catenae, the young impos- 
tor rose to the level of his masters, and 
played his part with consummate skill. 

The Due, whose life had been one series 
of miseries, and who had so terribly expi- 
ated the crimes of his youth, was as if 
siezed with vertigo. Had he obeyed him 
Paul would have gone immediately and 
established himself with his wife in the 
Hotel de Champdoce. But here Martin 
Regal interposed with objections. 

The banker was but half pleased at see- 
ing his son-in-law Due and ten times a 
millionaire. 

Finally it was agreed that the Due 
should come and breakfast the next morn- 
ing with Martin Regal, and that after- 
ward he should take his son away with 
him. 

The hour of eleven was fixed, but it was 
only ten when the Due appeared in the 
room of the banker, where he. Catenae, 
Hortebise and Paul were assembled in 
council. 

“ Now,” Flavia said to her father whom 
she kept on thorns by her enthusiastic ex- 
pressions of delight, “ you can laugh no 
more at me for loving a poor Bohemian. 
You see now that this arJst is a Champ- 
doce, and that his father possesses mil- 
lions ! ” 

She entered her father’s room on tiptoe, 
and stood near the door with a smile on 
her pretty lips. The Due de Champdoce 
was sitting on the sofa by the side of the 
youth, whose hand he held and whom he 
believed to be his son. 

He had undertaken to prepare the mind 
of the Duchess, and his words had imper- 
illed her life. 

“ This morning,” he added, “ she is bet- 
ter, and she hopes ” 

He was suddenly interrupted. 

On the other side of the wall, which 
faced the door, were heard loud and con- 
tinued blows. 

The wall was evidently being attacked 
by a pick-axe ; the whole house was 
shaken, and the screen was thrown down. 

The three associates looked at each 
other in pale consternation. It was clear 
to them that the bricks erected by Masca- 
rot and Beaumarchef, were being torn 
down. 

The Due was amazed. The terror of the 
three accomplices was perfectly evident ; 
he felt Paul’s hand tremble in his own, 
and he could not understand why blows 
on a party wall should cause such fright. 

Flavia was the only one who suspected 
no evil, and it was Flavia who said : ‘‘We 
must ascertain the reason of this noise.” 

“ I will send and see,” said her father. 

But hardly had he opened the door than 
he started back with dilated eyes, and 
arms extended, as if to ward off some 
terrible apparition that rose before him. 

In the doorway stood a most respectable 
looking gentleman, wearing gold-bowed 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS, 


267 


spectacles, and behind him was a police 
officer, wearing his scarf and badge, and 
still farther back a half dozen more. 

The same name leaped to the lips of the 
three associates : Monsieur Lecoq ! ” 

And at the same time this terrible con- 
viction entered their brains: ‘‘We are 
lost ! ” 

The famous detective came slowly for- 
ward, curiously watching the strange 
group before him. His countenance, de- 
spite its gravity, evinced something of that 
intense satisfaction felt by a dramatist 
who sees his conceptions marvelously 
well placed upon the stage; the scene, in 
fact, which he has rehearsed and com- 
bined in the solitude of his own room. 

"‘Ah! I was right, it seems,” he said 
quietly. ‘‘I felt 1 was not making any 
mistake in tapping the wall on the other 
side; I knew I should come out here.” 

But the banker by this time had re- 
gained his self-possession, at all events, in 
appearance. 

“ What do yon want?” he added in an 
arrogant tone". “ What means this viola- 
tion of my privacy?” 

This gentleman will explain,” Lecoq 
answered, showing the police officer. 
^‘But, I. in the meantime, arrest you, 
Martin Regal, alias Tantaine, alias Masca- 
rot.” 

“ I do not understand.” 

“Indeed! Do you think that Tantaine 
has so thoroughly washed his hands that 
not one drop of Andre’s blood clings to 
the fingers of Martin Regal?” 

“ Upon my life, I do not comprehend.” 

Lecoq smiled blandly, and drawing from 
his pocket a letter delicately folded, he 
said: 

“You probably are familiar with your 
daughter's handwriting. Well, then, lis- 
ten to what she wrote, not a month ago, 
to Monsieur Paul, here present. 

“Dear Friend — We should be mon- 
sters of ingratitude if ” 

“ Enough ! ” interrupted the banker, in 
a hoarse voice. “Lost! lost! Lost bv my 
child ! by Flavia ! ” 

Of these three accomplices the calmest 
now was he who in general was the most 
readily alarmed — the smiling Dr. Horte- 
bise. 

When he recognized Lecoq, the gallant 
doctor had quietly taken from the medal- 
lion which dangled on his watch chain, a 
small stone of grey paste, and waited un- 
til his chief should declare that all hope 
was over. 

In the meantime, Lecoq turned toward 
Catenae. “And you, too,” he said; “1 
arrest you in the name of the law ! ” 

Perhaps it was because he was a lawyer 
that Catenae deigned no word to Monsieur 
Lecoq. To the officer he said, however : 
“lam the victim, sir, of a most disagree- 


able mistake; but I enjoy sufiScient con- 
sideration in the courts ” 

“ The order of arrest,” said the officer, 
“is in regular form. I can show it to 
you, sir, if you choose.” 

Oh, no, it is not worth while. I will 
merely beg you to take me at once to the 
magistrate v\ ho signed it. In five minutes 
it will be all right.” 

“Do you think that?” asked Monsieur 
Lecoq, in a bantering tone. “You are 
ignorvint, I see, of an event that took place 
day before yesterday. Some laborer found 
the body of a new-born child, wrapped in 
a silk handkerchief and an old shawl. 
The police lost no time, and they already 
have the mother, a girl named Claris -e.” 

If Lecoq had not held him the lawyer 
would have flown at Martin Regal’s 
throat. 

“ Scoundrel ! ” he yelled. “ Traitor I 

Coward ! You have sold me ” 

“ Ah ! ” stammered the banker : “ my 
papers have been stolen.” 

He saw, now that the blows struck on 
the other side of the wall were but a rxise. 
Lecoq had thought it advisable to give 
them a fright first, hoping in that way to 
find them amenable to reason. 

Hortebise looked on calmly. Yes, the 
game was lost ; he smiled no more. 

‘‘‘ I have honest relatives who bear ray 
name,” he thought. “ I will not dishonor 
them. There is no time to lose.” 

And he swallowed the contents of his 
medallion, saying half aloud and half to 
himself : 

‘ ‘ At my age, with such a digestion, 
never was I in better health ! ” 

No one noticed the doctor. Lecoq had 
moved the screen, and then showed the 
police officer where a hole had been made 
large enough for a man to slip through. 

But a sudden noise cut these explana- 
tions short. Poor Hortebise had fallen to 
the floor in terrible convulsions. 

“How stupid!” exclaimed Lecoq — 
“how stupid in me not to have foreseen 
this! He has taken poison! Run for a 
doctor ! Put him on a bed ! ” 

While these orders were being hastily 
obeyed, the doctor and Catenae were taken 
down to the fiacre, which awaited them in 
the street. Martin Regal seemed struck 
by imbecility. 

“ And my daughter ! Flavia ! — Flavia is 
her name — what is to become of her? She 
has no .fortune, and she is married to a 
man who cannot earn the bread he eats. 
My child! My child! Will she herself 
always have bread?” 

Monsieur Lecoq remained alone with the 
Due de Champdoce, Paul, and Flavia. 

The unfortunate girl crouched in the 
corner of a sofa, and the wild light in her 
eyes told that her mind was wandering. 

The detective was reluctant to strike 
another blow at this defenceless creature. 

But time pressed, and he went toward 


268 


THE SLAVES OF PAEIS, 


the Due, who was dumb with surprise. 
“ I must inform you, sir,?’ said Lecoq, “that 
you are the victim of a most insolent fraud. 
This young man is not your son — his 
name is Paul Violaine, and his mother was 
a poor seamstress in Chatitterault. 

Paul was so utterly absurd that he began 
to bluster and deny ; but on a sign from 
the detective the door opened, and in came 
Rose in the most dazzling toilette. 

The young impostor did not even let her 
speak — he avowed all. 

Lecoq pointed to Flavia. “ It is not of 
me you should ask forgiveness,” he said, 
“ but of this poor woman, your wife, who 
is dying, I think.” 

The Due de Champdoce was in a state of 
despair. The detective took him aside. 

“ Let me tell you. Due,” said he, “ these 
scoundrels have only deceived you. The 
child you seek exists, and they know him. 
I know him, also ; and to-morrow I will 
take you to him ! ” 


CHAPTER LXII. 

Obedient to the instructions of M. 
Lecoq, Andre resigned himself with pa- 
tience to remaining at the Hospice Beau- 
jon. He even had courage to affect that 
profound indifference which had deceived 
Mascarot. 

His neighbor on his right, the sick man 
whom Lecoq had called his agent, gave 
him in secret a letter, which told him all 
that had taken place. This letter he read 
and — ate. 

Time rolled on ; the days seemed inter- 
minable, and Andre was beginning to lose 
patience, when one morning his neighbor 
handed him a note, which caused him to 
utter an exclamation of joy. 

“ We are all right ! ” wrote Lecoq. “ All 
danger is over. Ask the surgeon to sign 
your permission to leave. Make yourself 
fine, and — you will find me at the door. 

L.” 

Anftre was not perfectly well ; his arm 
was in a sling, in which it must remain for 
some weeks, if not months ; but these con- 
siderations did not deter him. He rose at 
a very early hour, and dressed himself in 
the clothes for which he had sent to his 
rooms, and then, about nine o’clock, hav- 
ing taken an affectionate leave of the good 
Sisters, he left the hospital. 

When he reached the door, he stood 
drinking in the fresh air with delight for a 
moment. Then he began to wonder why 
he did not see that strange man to whom 
he owed more than life. 

He was deliberating what he should do, 
when an open carriage came rapidly down 
the gentle slope of the street, and drew up 
before the hospital. 

“ You have come ! ” cried Andre, rush- 


ing toward the gentleman who alighted. 
“ I had begun to be very anxious.” 

“You are right!” said Lecoq, “I am 
five minutes behind time, but I was de- 
tained.” 

As Andre began to pour out his thanks, 
he added : “ Get into the carriage ; I have 
much to say to you.” 

As he took his seat by the side of the 
detective, Andre was struck by something 
unusual in his expression. 

“ You probably detect a strange expres- 
sion in my face? It may well be so, for I 
have spent the night in looking over Mas- 
carot's papers. Then, too, I have just 
witnessed a most painful scene — one of 
the most painful of my life.” 

He shook his head as if he hoped to 
shake off the impression. 

“ Martin Regafs reason,” he said, “has 
not resisted this catastrophe. This villain 
had one passion — he adored his daughter. 
Suddenly separated from her, knowing 
her to be without fortune, married to a 
fellow whose character he had the best 
reason to know was utterly worthless, he 
has lost his mind entirely. He imagines 
that Paul and Flavia are without a franc 
and without bread. And he thinks he 
hears his daughter crying to him con- 
stantly for help. Then he calls his jailers, 
and on his knees implores them to let him 
go only for a day, an hour, and swears he 
will return as soon as he has given aid to 
his child. And when they will not grant 
his prayer, he falls into a frenzy. It is 
thus I have just seen him, howling like a 
wild beast. And this will probably go on 
for a year, two years, ten years! And 
each minute of these years will be to him 
an intolerable torture.” 

“You see,” continued Lecoq, “ the bat- 
tle is won. Dr. Hortebise is dying, but 
the poison on which he relied as instanta- 
neous has betrayed him, and his agony 
has lasted him twenty-four hours. Cate- 
nae intended to hold his owm, but he is 
accused, and will be convicted of infanti- 
cide. Martin Regal’s papers have fur- 
nished me with proofs against Perpignan, 
Van Klopen, and Verminet, who will all 
serve out a comfortable sentence. Toto- 
Chupin’s fate is not yet settled. We shall 
remember that he came and denounced 
himself.” 

“ And Croisenois? ” 

“ The company will be treated like any 
swindling association, and Croisenois will 
be sent to prison for two months. This is 
all I have to tell you, I think, except that 
Gandelu to-morrow will be in possession 
of the forged signatures.” 

As they rolled along the wide road in 
the Bois de Boulogne, Monsieur Lecoq 
made a sign to the coachman to turn and 
go back. 

“ The time has come,” he said, “ to ex- 
plain why, on our first interview, I saluted 
you as the Due de Champdoce. Your 


THE SLAVES OF PARIS, 


269 


history I had guessed, but only last night 
did I learn its details.*” 

And without waiting for a reply he gave 
a rapid analysis ot Mascarot’s voluminous 
manuscript, which Paul had read aloud. 

He did not tell all, however. He pre- 
served a profound silence in regard to the 
crimes and faults of the Due de Champ- 
doce and Madame de Mussidan. He 
wished to spare Andre the pain of loath- 
ing or ceasing to respect his father and 
the mother of Sabine. 

The detective had managed his narration 
so well that he had just brought it to a 
conclusion when the coachman drew up 
opposite the Rue de Matignon. 

Let us alight here,’’ said Lecoq; and 
take care of your arm.” 

Andre mechanically obeyed. 

‘‘Now,” said the detective, turning to- 
ward the carriage again, “ listen to me. 
The Comte and Comtesse de Mussidan are 
expecting you to breakfast. Here is the 
invitation they requested me to give you. 
At four, be at your atelier^ and 1 will then 
have the honor of presenting you to your 
father. Until then not one word.” 

Andre was bewildered with happiness. 
But he gathered himself together, and 
rang at the door of the Hotel Mussidan. 

How would the Comte receive him? The 
door was opened, and the respectful eager- 
ness of the lacqueys he regarded as a good 
omen. 

He entered the salon in spite of a most 
singular circumstance. Opposite the door 
hung Sabine's portrait — the one he himself 
had painted. 

The Comte de Mussidan comprehended 
the natural embarrassment of the young 
man. He came to meet him with extended 
hands. 

“ Diane 1 ” he said, “ this is the husband 
of our dear daughter.” 

The Comte took Sabine’s hand and laid 
it in the youth’s. 

It was not for another minute that Andre 
dared to look at Sabine. Poor child, she 
was but the shadow of her former self — 
she had suffered so intensely in that long 
month when she had forced herself to re- 
ceive the homage of the Marquis de Crois- 
enois. 

“ You have suffered.” 

“ Yes,” she said, quietly, “ and I should 
certainly have died if it had lasted 
longer.” 

It was with difficulty that Andre re- 
frained from telling his secret to this be- 
loved woman, and it was with still greater 
difficulty that he went away at half-past 
three. 

He had not been in his atelier five min- 
utes before some one knocked. Lecoq en- 
tered, followed by an elderly gentleman, 
haughty and reserved in air and manner. 
It was the Due de Champdoce. 

“ This gentleman,” said the Due, turn- 
ing toward Lecoq, “ has informed you that 


certain unfortunate circumstances arose, 
which rendered it expedient, in my opin- 
ion, that I should separate from you — my 
son. I have cruelly expiated my crime. 
Look at me — I am only forty-eight.” 

And he looked sixty. 

“ My fault follows me still. To-day, in 
spite of my wishes, I cannot claim you as 
my son. The law allows me to give you 
my fortune and my name only by adopt- 
ing you.” 

The young painter was silent. The Due 
continued, with evident hesitation : 

“You can, to be sure, institute proceed- 
ings against me ; I must ” 

"‘Ah! sir,” iiite;Tupted Andre, “what 
sort of a person do you suppose me to be? 
Do you think that before I assume your 
name, which is mine as well, that I should 
be ^villing to dishonor it?” 

The Due breathed more freely. Andre’s 
manner had chilled him. What a difference 
there was between this haughty reserve 
and the pathetic scene acted by Paul the 
previous day. 

“ May I ask your permission, sir,” said 
Andre, "“to addi'ess to you a few obser- 
vations?” 

“ Observations?” 

“Yes; I did not dare to say conditions 
— but I think you will understand. My 
daily toil gave me neither means nor 
leisure. I am an artist, and nothing would 
induce me to give up my art.” 

“You will be your own master.” 

The young man hesitated. 

“This is not all,” he said: “I love a 
young lady and am beloved by her. Our 
marriage is arranged, and I think ” 

“ I think,” interrupted the Due, “ that 
you would not love a woman who was un- 
worthy of an alliance with our house.” 

But I was not of this house yesterday; 
but be at ease, sir, she is worthy of a 
Champdoce. I wish to marry the daugh- 
ter of the Comte de Mussidan.'’ 

The Due on hearing this name, grew 
livid. 

“Never!” he cried, “ never! I would 
rather see you dead.” 

“And I, sir, would suffer ten thousand 
deaths rather than renounce her I ” 

‘‘If I ref use my consent — if I for- 
bid ” 

‘‘ Paternal authority, sir, is purchased 
only by long years of protection. I owe 
you nothing." Forget me, as you have 
hitherto done.” 

The Due was silent. 

Must he renounce this son, so miracu- 
lously restored to him, or must he see him 
married to the daughter of Diane? These 
two alternatives seemed to him equally 
terrible. 

“ Never ! ” he said ; “ besides, the Com- 
tesse would never consent. She hates me 
as much as I hate her.” 

Monsieur Lecoq, who had looked on in 
silence, now thought it time to interfere. 


270 


THE SLAVES OF PABIS. 


I think,” he said, “ that I shall have 
no difficulty in obtaining the consent of 
Madame de Mussidan.” 

The Due opened his arms. “ Come, my 
son, all shall be as you wish.” 

That evening Marie de Puymandour, 
Duchesse de Champdoce, learned that 
happiness was more than a word. 

On learning that Andre was Norbert’s 
son. Diane de Mussidan declared that she 
would formally obj ect to his marriage 
with Sabine ; but among the papers of B. 
M scarot, Lecoq found Diane's correspon- 
dence, which he took to her, and in return 
received her consent. 


The celebrated detective declares that 
this is not blackmailing. 

Andre and Sabine reside at the Chateau 
de Mussidan, magnificently restored. They 
rarely leave the chateau, loving it for its 
vicinity to the Bois de Bevron, where 
they first learned to love each other. 

Over the balcony of his chateau, Andre 
shows the unfinished garland which fur- 
nis led the pretext for his presence at Mus- 
sidan. He intends, he says, to complete 
it some day. 

But if this be doubtful, one thing is 
certain — that before the new year there 
will be a baptism at Mussidan. 








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